The Particular Problem of Postern Prison
by Westron Wynde
Summary: Pride takes a fall when young Mr Holmes accepts a challenge from the Yard in another of his early cases. With his career in the balance, can he right old wrongs, renew past alliances and stay alive in the notorious Postern Prison? Seq to Chiro. COMPLETE!
1. Prologue

**Sherlock Holmes is the singular and exceptional creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. This story is a work of fan fiction, written by a fan, for the pleasure of other fans, and no harm is meant or intended by its creation.**

**The sequel to '****The Abominable Adventure of the Charming Chiromancer'**

_**The Particular Problem of Postern Prison**_

**Prologue**

I awake, shivering, exchanging darkness for the grey light of a winter's morn. I am on my back, hard boards pressing into my shoulder blades and the heels of my bare feet, and staring at a ceiling laced with cobwebs, cocooned flies and green shadows of damp that reach out from the corners. Somewhere in the distance a bells tolls the hour in eight long sonorous notes. A crow rasps a grating challenge to the morning, slow to wake on this bitter day. My name is Sherlock Holmes, but beyond that fact, I know nothing.

It is my business to know what other men do not, but today I am as bereft of knowledge as I am of warmth. No one who ever said that ignorance was bliss could have ever experienced the state for themselves. To know something would be tolerable, however bad the situation may be. To know nothing is terrifying.

I feel certain, although why I cannot say, that in whatever constitutes my life terror is not something in which I indulge on a daily basis. I am also certain that I am a controlled individual, disdainful of extraneous emotion and a devotee of that path of logic which leads to truth. This morning, however, I am as a new-born babe, aware that a world exists, flooded with sensation and overwhelmed in equal measure.

I would cry out for help if my voice was at my command. Somewhere between larynx and brain, the message becomes confused and nothing emerges from my gaping mouth but a thin, strangled moan. My breathing is slow, appalling so, requiring all my concentration to do little more than draw one breath after another. As my senses awaken, bringing to my nose the sharp bile-ridden stink of cold vomit and dank linen, the impression hardens that it would be in my best interest to escape this place, although why and for what reason eludes me still.

Putting thought into deed is difficult enough. I roll from the bed, expecting my arms and legs to respond to the impending drop, but instead find myself landing face down on the floor with my cheek bruising against a flagstone. If not for this insane impulse, I would remain where I am, fanned by a breeze wafting below the door ahead of me, carrying with it the smells of human presence and the icy blast of the outside world.

Something stirs in the back of my mind, and I know this should carry some relevance for me. Once, it would have meant something, before… before what? If one cannot define the problem, then a solution is impossible. This insane urge to lift myself from my stupor and struggle on is meaningless. Without my reason, I am nothing, and if I am nothing then there is no reason to wage this war against limbs too leaden to respond to the simplest of commands. I yearn to sleep, and it is only that imperative voice that keeps my eyes from closing and the suspicion that if I do, I shall never wake again.

Something tells me that Sherlock Holmes, whoever he is and whatever he does, whether he is nothing in this world or something, would not wait for whatever it was that was about to happen to simply overtake him. An annoying fellow, I thought, someone for whom I would be reserving a few harsh words should I ever make sense of my situation.

I muster what energy and control I have and start to crawl crab-like across the floor. My pace would put a snail to shame, but by the time the bells ring again, I am only a foot from the door. Having got this far, it presents a formidable obstacle. Solid, hinged from the outside and with no handle or lock on the inside, as I look at it I feel a wave of despondency wash over me, out of proportion to the problem in sight. A door is made for opening, after all, and all I can think is that sooner or later, open it must.

I do not have long to wait. The draught increases, footsteps rap outside and a key rattles in the lock. The door opens and I see six boots before me, four polished and gleaming, the remaining two made of soft, expensive leather that bends and creases as the wearer moves around me. Inexplicably, I feel apprehensive as though I know this man and have learnt to be wary of him. Could I lift my head to look at him, I feel sure that I would recognise his face. For the present, however, all I can be certain of is that his taste in footwear is exquisite.

"Look at the state of him," says a gruff voice from above, belonging to one of the wearers of the polished boots. "I ask you, would you Adam and Eve it?"

"That's enough, Andrews," says leather boots. I find myself cringing at the quiet authority in his voice. "Fetch a stretcher. We go ahead as planned."

Polished boots obeys and presently returns. Their superior leaves, his sharp footsteps receding into the distance as I am rolled onto my back and hauled onto the stretcher. Two faces, one blond, brown-eyed and scarred, the other pale as a ghost and young, stare down at me, part mocking, part contemptuous, part disgusted. Suddenly I know them, not their names or their positions, but what they represent. I give way to panic and my feeble attempts at resistance are met with derision.

"Now, now, sir, this is no way to be carrying on," says the blond man. "You want to try showing some dignity. I don't want to have to be rough with you, not today of all days, but if you don't quieten down, you'll be getting what for."

Forced down, lifted against my will, I am transported from the room, a pathetic, helpless creature, unable to speak or move. Onwards I am carried, beneath a low ceiling with small windows set high up in the walls, streaked with damp where the rain has found entrance and as cold as the grave. Ignorant of many things I may be, but I know what awaits me at the end of my journey. I know too that unless Sherlock Holmes decides who he is and devises a plan to extricate me from this mess, I will not live to hear the church bells chime the next hour.

* * *

_**To find out how this alarming situation came about, onwards to Chapter One!**_


	2. Chapter One

_**The Particular Problem of Postern Prison**_

**Chapter One**

It is said that every man has his burdens.

In my case, it takes the form of family. A brother who would wish to control my path and to whom I have not spoken for the best part of nine months; a cousin, Miles, who is a thief of talent and cunning; and his younger brother, Endymion, a cleric with strong opinions, sardonically-flared nostrils and a problem.

On that day, in late December 1878, his problem had become mine. He had sought me out in my depressed circumstances at St Bart's and had poured out a tale more suited to the pages of a penny dreadful than the ears of a sane man. Put simply, yesterday he had seen a dead man two days after he had been hanged for murder, alive and well and purchasing, of all things, a dressing gown in a gentleman's outfitters in Piccadilly.

Now he was adamant that the dead were rising from their graves. He was also eager to know what I was going to do about it.

Quite what he thought I could do in the event that there was any truth in his assertion that Judgement Day was at hand was not immediately evident. More practically, as I saw it, there were only two explanations, either that Endymion was mistaken or that he had seen the dead man as he had claimed. I tended towards the first, not least because my cousin did not make a particularly reliable witness.

If not mad, then he was very close to being so. In the short time since he had sought me out, he had accused the hospital's charwoman of having a wandering eye, a charge unwarranted against a woman of considerable girth and advancing years, had suggested that we ally against our unfeeling and overbearing brothers, and tried to convince me that the Last Trump had sounded.

Had I not been many months bereft of a case, I should have turned him from my door. As it was, beggars could not be choosers. My handling of my last case but one had cost me dear in terms of both respect and clients, and, loath as I was to further discredit myself in the eyes of the law and my peers in general, the prospect of something to occupy my all too abundant leisure time was appealing.

For that reason, I had suggested that we return to the scene of the crime, the little tailor's shop in Jermyn Street, where the dead man, Vamberry, had been seen engaged in improving his wardrobe. The case that had brought about his arrest, trial and subsequent execution had not been without certain features of interest and the press reports had already been added to my growing collection of cuttings. The man had been a wine merchant and from his trade had become rich beyond the dreams of avarice. He had loved and with a passion, a young lady from a noble family with a fortune quite the equal of his. It was, all had agreed, a good match. But one problem had stood in the way of their happiness: Vamberry's first wife.

No one at the time had known of the existence of the unhappy woman, confined to an asylum under an assumed name after the deterioration of her mental state many years before. Her death, though not unexpected, one month before Vamberry's re-marriage, had alerted one sharp-eyed attendant that all was not as Nature had intended. Unwisely, he had tried his hand at blackmail and had been found beaten to death some days later. What Vamberry could not have known was that the man had had an associate. In a state of abject terror, he had gone to the police and told them everything.

On this evidence, the first Mrs Vamberry had been exhumed from her pauper's grave and death by poisoning confirmed. A marriage certificate had been produced, exposing Vamberry's relationship with the unfortunate lady, and a witness came forward to testify that on the day of the lady's death, a box of confectionary had arrived for her, the remains of which had been fed to a stray dog. Hours later, both Mrs Vamberry and the dog were dead. The facts appeared conclusive.

The prosecution had had little difficulty in securing a conviction and Vamberry had duly been sentenced to hang. A half-column was enough to report that the sentence had been carried out to the satisfaction of all concerned, with the exception of the prisoner, who had been overcome at the prospect of his impending death and had been insensible throughout the proceedings.

Since these were the facts, any reasonable man might have taken the view that it was impossible for Vamberry to have been sighted only yesterday, not only alive but at liberty, and therefore conclude that either Endymion was mistaken or deluded. The latter theory I was determined to test; the first too could be verified, although Endymion had declared he knew the man by sight, having spoken to him in his cell in the days before his execution, when the prison's chaplain had been taken unwell and he had taken his post.

The next few hours would tell it one way or another. If nothing more than a product of his fertile imagination, I would suggest that he join his elder brother on the Continent for a holiday. If true, however, the impossible would have to concede to the improbable and an answer would have to be supplied. I would have a case, after months of toiling for a meagre living in the hospital's laboratories and feeling my intellect rot under the ceaseless burden of meaningless and routine tasks. Overall, I had hopes that Endymion was not as deranged as first impressions suggested.

Windrush and Sons was a neat, respectable tailoring establishment at the western end of Jermyn Street, setting itself apart from its competitors with a smart display of smoking jackets in the window and an assortment of winter pansies drooping beneath a crisp coating of ice in an untidy row above the shop's gold-painted name. On this side of the street, the pedestrian was shielded from the slanting rays of the low winter sun, so that it was possible to gain an unrestricted view of the shop's interior and the people within. Having thus proved that Endymion could well have glimpsed the man through the window as he had said, I was resolved to put the rest of his story to the test.

"You're going in?" Endymion demanded imperiously.

Since I had my hand on the door handle, one would have assumed that within was my likely destination. As absurd questions went, it certainly required an absurd answer, although I felt instinctively that it would be lost on my impervious cousin.

"How else am I to question the man about his customers?" I replied instead. "Unless you consider it best that we wait out here in the cold and hope that he comes to us."

At this, Endymion looked mildly offended, although less by my words and more at the insinuation. "You do not believe me, your own cousin? We are kin, Sherlock, flesh and blood. That must carry some weight with you."

He ended with a terse sniff, his nostrils flaring ever wider, an irritating habit that he indulged as a means of conveying his mood. From this curt example, I gathered that I was meant to understand that I had displeased him.

"Regardless of whether you are my cousin or not," I said, "I cannot take you simply at your word. Experience has taught me that people are not to be trusted, not even the best of them."

I nearly added that that was a lesson I had learnt well from his brother. Mindful that Endymion was probably ignorant of Miles's activities, however, I held my tongue.

"Whether by accident or design, one never gains the whole truth by listening to one person's account. I am bound to verify the facts, as I would do in any case."

"I am not _any_ case," he retorted. "I _demand_ that you believe me. I am owed that much by our family bond."

"What you are owed is a fair hearing. Beyond that, I reserve the right to exercise my own discretion."

Endymion's face turned a startling shade of puce. "Are you accusing me of making up this story?"

"No," I said diplomatically. "But perhaps what you saw was misinterpreted."

He pulled himself up to his full height, which was still not the equal of mine, and endeavoured to stare at me down the length of his nose. "It was not. I knew Vamberry. I talked the man. He showed no remorse for his crimes. I was appalled. That sort of behaviour leaves an indelible impression. I would know him anywhere!"

"And yet you also know him to be dead."

"You may scoff, Sherlock, but do not underestimate the power of evil. The man had no conscience. I would not be at all surprised if had sold his soul to Satan in order to aid his escape from justice!"

I have never been fond of conducting business in public, least of all when there are passers-by to turn and gaze curiously on the spectacle of a member of the clergy making an exhibition of himself. Endymion's friends would have described his behaviour as erratic at the best of times, but to the average man in the street he appeared simply insane. After several gentlemen crossed the road to avoid having to pass us, I decided it was time to bring an end to the matter.

"Why don't you go home?" I suggested. "I shall continue my investigations and report my findings."

"No," he said, dismissing it out of hand without a further thought. "You doubt me. Well, I shall come with you to question this tailor and when he has confirmed what I have told you, I shall expect an apology."

I suppressed a groan of dismay as I saw my chances of making any progress rapidly slipping away. "I should prefer to speak to the man alone."

"No doubt you would." He looked me up and down with a critical eye. "I suspect that you would not have much success. You hardly inspire confidence."

It was true that I had had better days. My sleep had not been peaceful and my conversation was punctuated by a troublesome cough that had resisted all efforts to subdue it for several months. I was aware I looked haggard and pinched, and was black around the eyes, but in all other respects my grooming was immaculate and my chin smooth. My circumstances may not have been promising, but I still had at least one good set of clothes left over from my exploits with Miles earlier in the year. Considering how hard he had tried to ruin my career, had soured my relations with Scotland Yard and had harboured thoughts of my death, the expensive tailoring he had left me was small recompense.

"But more than that," Endymion persisted, "it has come to my notice, Sherlock, that you display a distinct lack of faith in your fellow man. It is most unbecoming in a gentleman." He paused meaningfully. "If gentleman you are."

"As much as you, cousin. Our fathers, after all, were brothers."

"But mine did not marry beneath him."

I should have left. Failing that, I should have set him and his sneering expression on his heels in the slush. What actually happened was that our discussion was interrupted by the appearance of the shop's proprietor, Mr Windrush, a small, genial man with round glasses perched on the end of his nose and a glossy shine on the hairless part of his head. Evidently our squabbles had been the cause of some debate within, for despite his smile, he was hesitant and wary.

"May I be of some assistance, gentlemen?" he inquired.

"Yes," I said, silencing whatever Endymion was about to say with a withering look. "My cousin wishes to buy a dressing gown."

Windrush's smile broadened. "Then you have come to the right place. Come in, gentlemen, come in!"

I was about to follow when Endymion caught my arm. "What the devil did you say that for?"

"You wanted to make yourself useful. Now you can."

"But a dressing gown? I don't need a dressing gown."

"All gentlemen do," said I coolly. "That is, if gentleman you are, cousin."

I stepped past him and entered the shop, where Mr Windrush was selecting his finest stock for our inspection. Deep blues and opulent patterned purples gently shimmered in the light as he stroked his hand over the fabrics to flatten the creases.

"Now, sir," said he, employing his most winning smile against Endymion's evident hostility. "These are our finest silks—"

"The Devil wraps himself in silk! Take it away. I'll have none of it."

The smile faltered momentarily. "Quite so, sir. Not silk. Satin perhaps?"

"The stock-in-trade of painted harlots!"

"Wool then? I assure you our wool is selected from the finest, cleanest flocks in the country." He gestured to a waiting boy who darted away and returned with a garment in a colour best described as pea green. "Now, sir, you feel the quality of that. You will not feel anything softer, I dare say."

Endymion grudgingly ran his hand over it. "Yes, very nice."

"Do you wish to try it for size, sir?"

By the set of his lips and flare of his nostrils, I gathered that the answer to that was likely to be in the negative. Having come so far and endured so much, I was not about to let my ungracious cousin waste any more of our time with his stubborn refusals.

"Yes, he will," I said, much to Endymion's displeasure. It took a nudge to propel him into action. Whilst Windrush took his outer coat and helped him on with the gown, I took my chance to question the man. "Of course what we really wanted was a dressing gown that caught our attention in your shop yesterday. What colour now was it?"

"Red," said Endymion. "The colour of blood and bought by the wages of sin!"

Windrush smiled nervously. "Red, you say? Now let me think. Yes, I believe I did sell such a gown yesterday. The gentleman was most specific as to his requirements. Crushed red velvet with leaf-patterning and satin lapels."

"That's it! Who did you sell it to? Come on, man, out with his name!"

The tailor looked uneasy. "His name, why—"

"The gentleman who made the purchase was someone from my cousin's schooldays," I interjected. "They were at Harrow together."

"Harrow? Then it cannot be your friend, sir. Mr Robinson was telling me that he went to Marlborough."

"Robinson?" echoed Endymion. "Sir, you are mistaken."

"Sir, I am not," said Windrush emphatically. "I have the gentleman's name in my receipt book."

"Sherlock, he's lying. It was Vamberry, I know it was."

"Mr Windrush," I said, taking him to one side out of Endymion's hearing, "please excuse my cousin, he's a little excitable."

"He does appear to be so."

"He has had a most troubled life. Almost eaten by a lion in Africa, mauled by a bear in Russia, and troubled by a tiger in India."

Windrush glanced back at Endymion with new understanding. "Dear me, poor fellow. Most regrettable. But I don't see—"

"So you can appreciate that the sighting of someone he believed to be a former acquaintance was a cause for celebration for him."

"But the names, sir."

"Did I mention that an eagle fell on him in Scotland? Quite rattled his wits. But I have a picture." I fished the cutting with the likeness of Vamberry from my pocket. Having folded it so that Windrush could not see the name or the headline, I held it out to him. "Is this the gentleman who bought the dressing gown yesterday?"

Windrush's face lit up. "Yes, indeed, sir. That is Mr Robinson, upon my word it is!"

"Capital. I don't suppose he left you an address…?"

"No, sir, I fear not. He told me he was going abroad."

"Well, thank you, Mr Windrush, you've been a great help."

"And the dressing gown? It is twenty-five guineas."

I turned back to Endymion, who wore an expression of mortification and was shaking his head as though his life depended on it. The colour did not suit him and only endeavoured to make his complexion appear sicklier than before.

I grinned. "It's perfect, Mr Windrush. My cousin will take two."

* * *

_**So, two people saw Vamberry. Sounds like someone needs to go to Scotland Yard!**_

_**Continued in Chapter Two!**_


	3. Chapter Two

_**The Particular Problem of Postern Prison**_

**Chapter Two**

I left Endymion bemoaning his lot at having paid the outrageous sum of fifty guineas for two pea-green dressing gowns and made my way to Scotland Yard. It could not be avoided now that I had verified that my cousin had not been alone in sighting the egregious Vamberry, and I steeled myself for the task ahead.

To my mind, it was evident that the former wine merchant had somehow escaped the executioner and was attempting to forge a new life for himself abroad. He had been wise enough to adopt an alias, but not to forgo the improvement of his wardrobe until he was in foreign climes. It had been our good fortune that he had been recognised, by perhaps the only man in London who had spent some little time with him in the days before his execution and upon whom he had left an indelible impression. Since we were only a day behind, there was every chance that the police could apprehend him before he left the country.

That was, if they were prepared to listen to my story. From the dangerous looks I earned as I passed beneath the archway from Whitehall into the cobbled courtyard beyond, I gathered I was still _persona non grata_. No one likes arrogance, least of all, as Lestrade had put it when last I saw him, when one could be accused of displaying contempt for the police and the law in general. Nor was I expecting forgiveness any time soon. Policemen, after all, are notorious for their long memories.

Their dislike for me and my methods was understandable, but to be dismissed out of hand when I had come bearing information bordered on the perverse. My chief obstacle was six feet five inches of solid, stubborn policeman, in the shape of Duty Sergeant Hathaway, who was that morning manning the desk. A long-faced fellow with dusty grey hair and a slither of side whiskers attempting unsuccessfully to distract attention from his red outstanding ears, his smile faded when I entered the reception. A copy of _Punch_ was spread out on the desk before him and we played a game of studious indifference while he pretended to read and ignore my presence at the same time.

When I persisted, he finally relented and gave me a world-weary glance. "Was there something you wanted, sir?" he asked.

"I want to speak to Inspector Lestrade," I replied.

His gaze turned back to his reading. "Do you have an appointment?"

"No. Do I need one?"

"Oh, yes. Inspector Lestrade, he's a busy man. You can't just come waltzing in here and expect to see him, just like that."

"It's important."

"I dare say it is – to you. But who's to say whether your problem is any more or less important than what he's dealing with now?"

I could feel my jaw tightening. "Very well then, Sergeant. When might he be free?"

"You'll have to check with the officer in charge of making appointments, sir."

"And who might that be?"

Hathaway extracted large yellow handkerchief from his pocket and took his time in wiping out the inner surface of his nostrils as far as his fingers would allow. Then, with all due diligence, he stowed the handkerchief back in his pocket and regarded me with infuriating amusement.

"That would be me, sir."

"Then may I make an appointment, Sergeant?"

"I don't know about that." He fished out his half-hunter and consulted it. "It's time for my break. Why don't you come back later? Or better yet, not at all," he added under his breath.

I had been fully aware that I was liable to attract hostility by returning to Scotland Yard and I will allow that to an extent it may have been justified. I was prepared to put up with so much, but this was going too far. What was testing my patience to breaking point was the knowledge that every minute wasted bandying words with this fellow was another for Vamberry to leave the country.

"Sergeant Hathaway," I said, taking a deep breath to contain my growing frustration, "you may or may not have good reason to hold a grudge against me. Either way, it does not help us. Now, I can stand here all day debating the issue with you, but it does not change the fact that I need to speak to Inspector Lestrade!"

I should not have raised my voice. Hathaway rose to his feet, came over to where I stood and towered over me. I am not often intimidated, but when faced with a man so large that his body blocks out the daylight, one should exercise discretion. Had he chosen, he could have pounded me into the ground with one of his sledgehammer fists without breaking a sweat. Suddenly I knew how a mouse felt when confronted by an elephant.

"I should inform you, sir," said he in a severe tone of voice, "that loitering with intent is viewed very seriously by the courts. Now are you going to move along or am I going to have to arrest you?"

I tried once more. "I really do need to see Inspector Lestrade."

"Well, he don't want to see you, Mr Holmes. None of us do. So hook it."

The door to the inner sanctum was tantalisingly close. I gave serious consideration to whether I had turn of speed enough to dart past Hathaway and reach Lestrade's office before he caught up with me.

I decided that I did. I was wrong.

I got as far as laying my hand on the door handle before a hand came to rest on the scruff of my neck and plucked me into the air. I was hauled out of the reception and tossed into the gutter along with the rest of the half-thawed manure and other _disjecta membra_ that is liable to accumulate on any London street. Where any other fellow might have met with pity, my plight was met with derision. Around me, people started to laugh. In the doorway, Hathaway was holding onto his sides and guffawing with tears streaming down his cheeks. It was fair to say that my humiliation was complete.

I picked myself up, slipped on a patch of ice and ended up on my hands and knees once again. My tormentors laughed all the louder until a stentorian voice brought order to the proceedings.

"What the devil's going on out here?"

A window had opened in the building above and I looked up to see the blond, moon-faced countenance of Inspector Gregson glaring down at us.

"I'm trying to work up here," said he. "You, Hathaway, are you responsible?"

"No, sir," the sergeant called up. "We had a spot of bother from a troublemaker."

He gestured to me. Gregson's frown deepened.

"Oh, it's you, is it, Mr Holmes? I should have known."

I scrabbled to my feet. "Gregson, I need to talk to you."

"Go home. Sergeant, send him on his way. If he resists, arrest him."

He retreated back into his office and began to close the window. Hathaway grabbed my arm and proceeded to march me back to Whitehall. Seeing my last chance slipping away, I found my voice and called out to Gregson.

"I need to talk to you about Vamberry, Inspector!"

Gregson's head reappeared in the opening. "What about Vamberry?"

"I'd rather not say in public, but I think you should hear me out."

"If you're having me on, young man—"

Hathaway gave a painful twist of my collar to remind me of the consequences should I be entertaining any notions in that direction. "I'm not, Inspector, I swear it."

"All right, Hathaway. Bring him up."

The window closed. I was released grudgingly and given a push that propelled me back towards reception and the door on which I had made my ill-judged assault. Hathaway accompanied me upstairs, saw me into Gregson's neat, ordered office and with his slab-like hands forced me down into a spindle-backed upright chair. He paused only to inquire whether he could get the inspector a cup of tea, pointedly did not ask me, and then left, closing the door firmly behind him.

We sat staring at each other, and I was keenly aware that Gregson was prolonging the moment in order to heighten my sense of disquiet. In that he was failing, for my only discomfort was in my damp clothing and the coating of filth on my hands. I was a guest in his domain, however, and obliged to play by another man's rules. I sat and waited while Gregson ran his eyes over me, his gaze sharp, appraising and critical, his smile half-mocking, half-triumphant.

"Well, well, Mr Holmes," said he at last. "I didn't expect to you back here at Scotland Yard. Still dabbling are you, sir?"

Inspector Tobias Gregson had never made any pretence of liking me, although – and to his credit – he recognised an advantage when he saw it and was happy enough to use my brains when it suited him. Our animosity was mutual: his accusation of my being an amateur was one he had levelled at me in the past, whilst in turn I thought him an over-bearing and unimaginative. He had suggested an alliance of sorts once before and had taken offence when I had sided with his hated rival, Lestrade. Stuck in the middle of a war between two, I had been tossed and tumbled like a child's rag doll. Now one side had turned against me, I was forced into an uneasy association with the other.

"When I can, Inspector," I replied.

"What about Vamberry?"

"Perhaps a towel?" I suggested, indicating up my soiled hands.

"Vamberry."

With a sigh, I resigned myself to an uncomfortable and noxious few minutes until he gave thought to the state of his rug.

"I have information," I said.

Gregson regarded me with an unfriendly eye. "Do you? Perhaps you've not heard but the man was hanged a few days ago for the murder of his wife. If you've come here to cause trouble, then you've had a wasted journey. That was my case. There was no doubt about it. The man was found guilty by a jury of his peers."

"I don't disbelieve you."

"Then why are you here?"

"He's alive, Inspector."

Gregson let out a roar of laughter.

"I'm telling the truth."

"Nonsense. He's dead, and that's an end of the matter."

"I have evidence to the contrary."

"What evidence?"

"He was seen by two witnesses in Piccadilly only yesterday."

Gregson sat back in his chair and gave me a challenging look. "Does it amuse you, Mr Holmes, dreaming up ways to make our lives difficult here at Scotland Yard? Don't you think we've enough to do dealing with real crime that you have to come here bending our ears with your tall tales?"

"Have you considered the possibility that I'm not lying to you?"

"Vamberry was hanged, Mr Holmes. He couldn't have been seen running loose in Piccadilly."

"He wasn't running loose, he was shopping. He bought himself a dressing gown."

"Oh, that makes all the difference. Dead murderers have a well-known penchant for buying dressing gowns. It's a well-documented fact."

I ignored his sarcasm. "He was using a false name – Robinson – and told the tailor that he was going abroad."

Gregson snorted. "I don't care if he told him he was the King of Siam. It's impossible. No one escapes from Postern Prison."

"Vamberry did."

He held my gaze a long time before coming to a decision. "These witnesses of ours, are they credible?"

"One is the tailor who served him; the other is a clergyman who spoke to him in his cell a few days before his execution."

"They aren't queer in the head, are they, these two 'witnesses' of yours? Not drunkards or anything like that?"

I could speak with some confidence on Mr Windrush's behalf, although I was loath to make any rash claims about Endymion's sanity.

"Their testimony is compelling," I said diplomatically.

Gregson shook his head. "I still say it's impossible. Postern Prison is like a fortress. In fact I believe that's what it was originally. The reformers want it knocked down, but until they find somewhere to put the prisoners, it stays."

"Considering its reputation, do you think if a prisoner did escape that the governor would want that information becoming public?"

"Why should he do that? Granted, Postern has a reputation, but the public need never have known if someone did escape. We do know how to be discreet here at Scotland Yard."

From the warning glare stare he gave me, I thought it best not to reply to that assertion.

"In any case, you're forgetting: the execution was witnessed by the doctor, the chaplain, several of the turnkeys, and the hangman. Unless you're accusing all of them of complicity too."

I shrugged. "All they would have to do is stage the execution and provide a death certificate. Are the bodies returned to the families for burial?"

"No, they've their own burial ground at Postern."

"Then unless you can find an independent witness who saw the body after death, you cannot say for certain if Vamberry was hanged at all. He was a wealthy man, Inspector. He could have bought their silence. He wouldn't be the first."

"Bought their—" Gregson checked himself and regarded me with a wearisome expression. "You're a strange one, Mr Holmes. Has anyone ever told you that?"

"It has been mentioned."

"You come back here with a tale of the walking dead, accuse the governor of one of our foremost prisons of corruption and expect me to believe you. Well, you don't lack nerve, I'll give you that, especially showing your face back here after what happened last time."

"That was none of my doing."

"Lestrade thinks you were in it up to your neck." His gaze did not waver. I sensed he was trying to provoke me into a reaction. I did not respond. "Still, what does he know? That's why I've got the big office and he's in a cupboard overlooking the back yard. Actually, I should thank you. Finding that diadem did me the world of good."

I could dispute that he had found it, but I could not admit that it had been me who had persuaded Miles to return it, since I had given him my word that I would not confess his part in the theft to the police. That Miles had then attached my name to it and raised the ire of inspector and constable alike did not mean I was about to emulate his example and break faith with him, as tempting as that prospect was.

"And what's good for me," he went on, "is bad news for Lestrade. And for you too, judging from the look of you. Times hard, are they?"

"They've been better."

"Then perhaps you should find yourself a proper job and stop wasting police time." He rummaged in a drawer and took out a towel. "You stink, young man," he said, tossing it in my direction. "Here, clean yourself up."

From the encrusted smears, it looked as though it was the towel he used for cleaning his boots. It sufficed to wipe away the worst of the dirt, although I was still aware of a lingering smell of horses and rotting cabbage.

"Let me tell you how it stands, Mr Holmes," said Gregson, leaning forward to resting his elbows on the desk. "I've got half a dozen cases on hand at the moment – real cases, mark you, not made-up ones, nor based on rumour or superstition. I haven't the time to go chasing after ghosts. We're short-handed as it is. So, here's what I propose."

His tone was conversational, almost too reasonable.

"You say this Vamberry escaped the prison, with or without the assistance of the governor. But how are we to know if this fellow the clergyman and tailor saw wasn't just a good likeness? They say everyone has a double. You concede that it's possible?"

"Yes, it's possible."

"Very well then. I'm satisfied with that explanation."

"I'm not, Inspector. A man has escaped justice and is about to flee the country."

"That's what I thought you'd say." His eyes took on a hard gleam. "Since you're so sure Vamberry is alive, if you can prove to me that it's possible for a man to escape Postern, I promise you that I'll look further into the matter."

"How do I prove it?"

An almost feral grin settled on his features. "By going to prison."

I stared at him, not sure whether he meant it.

"What's the matter, Mr Holmes? Feel unequal to the challenge? Prison too daunting for you?"

"No," I replied. "I just hadn't credited you with that much imagination, Gregson."

His smile faded. "If Vamberry escaped, then he did so by his own wits. I want to see if you can do the same." He drew a ten pound note from his pocket and placed it on the desk between us. "How do you feel about taking a wager, Mr Holmes? A tenner says you can't do it in a week."

"And what of Vamberry? While you play games, Inspector, he is free to go where he pleases, when he pleases."

"I'll tell the lads to keep a lookout for a man called Robinson matching his description who might be trying to leave the country. But that's all I'm prepared to do for the time being. You see, let's say I believe you – which I don't – but if I go asking questions at Postern, I'm liable to get the standard answers. If Vamberry did escape and the governor and his staff kept silent about it, they aren't going to admit as such to me. But if you go, mingle with the other prisoners, find out how the situation is, you might learn more. And if you can escape… well, you'll be ten pounds richer."

I _had_ underestimated him. His suggestion had a touch of genius about it. Whilst I did not relish the thought of prison life, he was correct in asserting that I would be better placed to assess the situation at Postern.

"And if I fail to escape?"

"Then you'll owe me ten pounds."

I wondered if he knew about my straitened circumstances. "That's a great deal of money, Inspector."

"I know, Mr Holmes. If you haven't got it, you can pay me back in kind. You've got your faults, but you're not unintelligent."

"Thank you, Gregson," I muttered.

"So, what do you say?"

I considered. "What happens if after a week I haven't managed to escape?"

"I'll get you out of there, don't worry." He gave a grunt of laughter. "What, don't you trust me?"

"If I have your word."

"Certainly, if I have yours that this arrangement stays between ourselves. If it's going to work, no one must know what we're planning. You go in like any other prisoner, Mr Holmes. No special treatment. You knuckle down to the regime, you find out what's going on, and if you can, you escape and prove to me that it's possible."

I understood his reasoning. If anyone ever suspected that I was working for Gregson, I would learn nothing and could find myself in a great deal of danger. I also understood that in the list of people he was worried I might inform was his rival, Lestrade. Despite Gregson's arrogance, I suspected that the pecking order at the Yard was not as settled as he claimed. I was aware that I would be used to enhance his standing; I was further aware that by allowing me to conduct my own investigation, should I be proved wrong, he would not be seen to lose face by the experiment. All the risks were on my side, all the glory likely to be on his. It promised to be a thankless task.

Against that I had to consider that a condemned man had evaded justice and that only I stood between his freedom and recapture. I also had something to prove, both to myself and those who had derided me in the street. If I was ever to win back the respect of the Yarders, this was the best opportunity that had come my way in many a month.

As truces went, ours was unlikely, uneasy and too good to let past grievances stand in our way. And I have never been one to back down from a challenge.

"I accept, Inspector," I said. "How soon can you make the arrangements?"

"By tomorrow, if that suits you."

"It does. Until tomorrow then."

As I gathered up my things and made for the door, Gregson called me back.

"Good luck at Postern, Mr Holmes," said he grimly. "You'll certainly need it."

* * *

_**Good idea or bad idea? He's soon going to find out. Off to prison next!**_

_**Continued in Chapter Three!**_


	4. Chapter Three

_A/N: Although Postern is fictitious, the regime of prison life as described in the following chapters has been loosely based on that of real Victorian prisons._

_**The Particular Problem of Postern Prison**_

**Chapter Three**

On New Year's Day, 1879, I became just another of Postern's prisoners.

I had had a telegram from Gregson the previous evening, informing me that a night in the Newgate cells would add credence to my story before I joined the other prisoners leaving for Postern the following morning. As every good actor – and possibly a few of the mediocre ones – knows, the correct choice of clothes is vital to the performance; in the same way, a disguise should be in keeping with the situation.

I bought myself a disreputable set of garments for a few pennies from the rag man, took a pair of scissors to my hair and ground dirt into nails. By the time I had finished, a hollow-eyed, hungry-looking young fellow in an ill-fitting suit and with tufts of hair sticking out from his head at all angles stared back at me in the mirror. My transformation was complete.

So successful was it that I dared not present myself at St Bart's to explain the reason for my forthcoming absence. A note sufficed, explaining that family matters had called upon my time. Until term began again, I would not be missed, although I did not want to be accused of abandoning my post on a whim. I did not anticipate being away longer than a few days; if Vamberry had managed to find a means of escape, then I was sure I could the same. After all, what one man may devise, another may emulate.

One does not simply present oneself at the prison door and expect to be incarcerated. That evening began the long and wearisome rigmarole of being shuffled from one holding cell to another. The last I saw of Gregson was when he took me, hand-cuffed and sullen, to a police station in Lambeth, told them I was under arrest for theft and was to go up before the magistrate tomorrow. Although out of his division, I imagined that he had selected this particular station for a good reason. The night was due to be a busy one, being New Year's Eve, and after the anticipated intake of the drunk and disorderly, there would be no room for me. All their prisoners, so the duty sergeant informed him, were being shipped over to Newgate, and if he wanted to leave me there, I would have to go with them.

"Then I'll leave him," Gregson had said. "Doesn't matter to me where he spends the night. As long as he's behind bars."

If I have had cause to criticise Gregson over the years, that evening he rose in my estimation as being the smartest of the Scotland Yarders. On a busy night such as this, a man with a mind to do so could easily get lost in the prison system and, with a little cunning, end up at his chosen destination in no time at all. In a nod to the past, I had been charged under the alias of 'Henry Holmes', a name I had been using when first we had met during the course of the Tankerville Club investigation. If I had ever wondered if Gregson was capable of nursing a grievance about that particular incident, I was soon to find out.

On that note, we had parted, me to my cell and he to his home, maintaining our roles to the last. We had said all that was necessary before entering the station – I had told him I would see in him a few days and, in reply, he had said that if I did, it would be nothing short of a miracle. With my reputation at stake, a worker of miracles I would have to be.

A half hour later, I was jostled into a police wagon with three other miserable-looking souls and taken to Newgate. Being on remand, I was allowed to keep my own clothes, even as mean as they were. The cell, my temporary accommodation for the night, was as wretched a hole as might have been dreamt up in the visions of Dante.

In some respects, it met my expectations, in its smallness, the paucity of natural light, with its one tiny window set high up and covered over with an iron grate, the lime-washed walls, and packed-stone floor. Other writers have described such conditions better than me, although it takes personal experience to be able to appreciate the sense of despondency of such surroundings. One cannot appreciate the abject misery of being deprived of all other materials but wool, wood and tin or the disgust that the sight of a stained slop bucket may produce until locked in a cold cramped cell with little else for distraction.

One concession to comfort was the provision of a hammock with two sheets and two blankets. A pillow would have been welcome, but a rolled-up sheet served just as well. It was comfortable enough, once mastery of the thing had been achieved, which in itself was no easy task. Pulling a blanket around me, I was never more aware that I was the most recent in a long line of other men who had occupied this cell and used these bedclothes. The smell of their sweat seemed to be woven into the very fabric and the lice they had left behind hurried out to find a new host. Between scratching, trying to stave off pangs of hunger and stopping myself from being pitched onto the floor, I managed to snatch a few hours of sleep.

Then in the middle of the night, or so it seemed to me, the prison bell started to ring, rousing the inmates from their slumbers. Stiff from the cold, hungry and stupefied with tiredness, I near fell out of the hammock just in time to see a dustpan and brush pushed through a trap in the door.

"What's this?" I asked.

An anonymous voice informed me that I was expected to clean up and leave the cell as I had found it. My meek inquiry after breakfast was met with a harsh laugh and the news that I would be gone long before then because I was being shipped out to Postern in the next hour. What time would that be, I asked. Seven o'clock, I was told, and with that the trap was shut.

So it was that at the ungodly hour of six in the morning, I, or rather Henry Holmes, was to be found on his hands and knees sweeping dust, folding up blankets and tidying away the hammock. It seemed to have taken me most of the hour, for by the time the warder returned, I saw from his expression of distaste what he thought of my having slept the night in my clothes and not having had time to wash that morning.

In a state of exhaustion, I was pushed and pulled this way and that into a room with other several men. We were cuffed at wrist and ankle, and then sent on our way in a private omnibus to the railway station for the onward journey to Postern on the Kent side of the Thames Estuary. As hard as the night had been, it was not until we reached the station that the enormity of the task to which I committed myself was brought home to me.

I had thought I was prepared for whatever came my way during the course of that journey. I had expected our appearance to generate disapproval. What I did not expect was the harsh reality of becoming a thing of scorn and contempt, of hearing muttered remark about the nature of my character and the sight of mothers pulling their children away as though they feared my presence would miasmally infect their offspring. Playing a role I might have been, but I earned their equal condemnation. It was demoralising enough to cause the first of my doubts, and I had to remind myself that mine was not a permanent incarceration and would be terminated after a week, whatever the outcome.

I had my last view of London from the carriage window as we crossed the river and left the fog-bound city far behind. Once out into the countryside, bread and cheese was distributed by the warders who had accompanied us and a can of water was passed around. As eager as I was to eat, my appetite was somewhat dented when I detected what seemed to be a set of teeth-marks in the cheese and a green rime on the bread. Had my mouth not been as dry as old leather, I should have refused the water can on the basis that the previous drinker had a large weeping sore by the side of his mouth. Thirst can make the best of us lower our standards, however, and after surreptitiously wiping the mouthpiece with my sleeve, I drank deep and gratefully.

Talking was discouraged, and in the silence I had time enough to observe and draw certain conclusions about my fellow passengers. My five companions were of various ages and occupations: an aged groom and hardened gambler, fallen into debt; a factory worker, driven to stealing scraps to feed a large family; a young servant with the taste for the high-life caught stealing from a master; and two hardened thieves, old hands to the routine who had mastered the art of speaking without moving their lips. Their low rumble was inaudible to my ears, although it did attract the attention of the warder who gave us all a suspicious glance and failed to find the culprits.

At the other end of our journey, several omnibuses were waiting for us and the process of transferring us from one carriage to another began all over again. There was less to see this time: flat marshes reached out to sea, a few scattered homesteads quietly smoking and empty fields populated by scavenging seagulls seeking refuge from the storm-troubled waves. After a longish drive devoid of interest, the entrance to Postern loomed ahead. Built during the time of the Napoleonic Wars to defend the river approach to London from enemy ships, it had found another use in housing prisoners of war, who had been set to enlarging the buildings and constructing the massive outer walls that was to be my home for the next week.

As we drew nearer, a passage drifted into my mind, the words of an anonymous writer of the last century describing a similar institution:

"_An old pile most dreadful to the view_

_Dismal as wormwood or repenting rue."_

The prison in question the Marshalsea, the _Hell in Epitome_ of the title, but it could just have easily been describing the forbidding walls and solid gatehouse of Postern.

Once inside, the process of admission was carried out with ruthless efficiency. I was searched by a rough, surly warder with calloused hands and an unsympathetic manner before being sent to the prison surgeon. Dr Martin, a man of forty with a world-weary expression, greying hair and beetling eyebrows that met in the middle gave the impression that he had better things to be doing that inspecting the latest intake of inmates. Judging from the strong trace of alcohol on his breath, I suspected he was also nursing a headache.

When I entered the room, he gave me the most perfunctory of glances and told me to strip. Under the watchful eye of the warder, I got down to my flannels and waited for his next instruction.

"Henry Holmes," he said, reading from a sheaf of papers which I took to be my file. "Twenty-four years of age. Convicted of theft. Sentenced to eighteen months' hard labour."

The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. When Gregson had said no special concessions, he had meant it.

"It's my task to ascertain whether you're fit enough to be put to the wheel." Glancing up at me, he frowned. "You look half-starved. Are you consumptive?"

"I have a cough," I told him.

"Do you?" he said grudgingly. "Well, let's examine you. And I'll remind you when you address me in future to call me 'sir'. Is that understood?" I nodded. "Good. Strip."

"I have, sir."

"Everything, Holmes. The shirt, and, yes, the drawers too."

I hesitated a fraction too long.

"Come on, come on, you've nothing we haven't seen before," he said irritably. His eyes narrowed a fraction. "Or is this reticence of yours due to something other than natural modesty? You did search him, didn't you, Green? Did he have anything on his person?"

The warder shook his head. "Not even a penknife, Doctor."

"No valuables either?"

"Nothing, Doctor."

"Perhaps he thought he could hide them. It wouldn't be the first time. Have you something in your underwear you'd rather we didn't see, Holmes? You'd be surprised what some people think they can get past us."

"No, sir," I replied.

"Well then, remove them. And when he has, Green, take all his clothes away and burn them. I wouldn't let my dog sleep on rags as filthy as those."

The rigours of life at public school may prepare a man for anything, including disrobing in company; even so, I have never felt quite so vulnerable and humiliated as I did standing bare-footed and naked in that cold chamber as the doctor performed a cursory examination. He was reluctant to touch me, given the state of my clothes and unwashed face and hands. The look of distaste on his face when he had completed his duty was a testament to the care I had taken in perfecting my disguise.

"This man's covered in flea-bites," he told the warder. "Tell the barber to give him a close shave. We can't have the lice spreading to the other prisoners. The governor likes to run a tight ship here at Postern and the last thing he wants to see are the inmates scratching themselves red raw. Now, does it hurt when you cough?"

"A little, sir," I admitted.

"Where?"

I indicated an area in the region of my ribcage and down one side.

"Have you ever coughed up blood?"

"No, sir."

"Are you taking anything for it?"

I thought how Henry Holmes, failed thief and convict, might approach such a question and decided that an appeal to the doctor's sense of compassion might be in order.

"Couldn't afford no medicines, sir."

"I'm not interested in your excuses," he retorted sharply. "I've heard them all a hundred times before. Haven't you any family to take care of you?"

My brother's name came to mind and my insides tightened as I imagined what his reaction would be if he knew what I was doing. I banished him from my thoughts.

"No, sir. No family."

Dr Martin returned to his desk and scribbled a few notes on my file. "I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt and passing you for work, Holmes. You could have pleurisy or it might be a simple strain. Either way, we'll have to see how you cope. You seem to be in a reasonable state of health, although your personal hygiene is appalling. Green, see this prisoner is given a good bath. And if he doesn't know what soap and water is, _teach him_."

* * *

_**Welcome to Postern, Mr Holmes! Things aren't looking good, and it's still only the first day. Will it get better... or is worse to come?**_

_**Continued in Chapter Four!**_


	5. Chapter Four

_**The Particular Problem of Postern Prison**_

**Chapter Four**

One should take a role only so far, and so I declined the warder's offer to teach me the proper usage of soap and water and took my bath without complaint. That it was cold did not encourage delay, and I was scrubbed and out in less time than it had taken for the doctor to conduct his examination.

A suit of prison clothes, new or very nearly so, consisting of a dress coat, waistcoat, shirt and trousers, was waiting for me, all made of a grey rough cloth that rubbed in places where the flannel underclothes did not cover. A stout pair of ill-fitting boots and stockings completed the outfit, the latter made of the coarsest wool imaginable that itched and chafed against my skin until my ankles felt raw from the irritation.

There was a cap to complete the outfit, although this the warder retained until the barber had done his work. I soon learnt what the doctor had meant by a close shave. By the time he had finished, I was shorn of head, and cut and bleeding, with what remained of my hair in a dark circle about my feet.

Having hitherto taken some little pride in my appearance, to be suddenly bald was a disagreeable experience. The air seemed colder against my bare scalp and draughts plagued me from every quarter. To escape them, I forced the cap down over my head and tried to ignore the discomfort from the sharp fibres that dug into my cuts and encouraged the blood to flow again.

Duly admitted, cleaned, booted and shaved, their interest in me waned. I was taken to a cell and left to my own devices. Not that a man may find much to do in such a confined place except pace the floor, rearrange the few items at his disposal, namely a wobbly table, a night bucket with a lid on it that doubled as a stool and a shelf with a Bible, prayer book and hymn book, and bemoan the unhappy fate that had brought him to such a situation.

For me, it was my first opportunity to take stock of my surroundings and set about devising a means of escape. Gregson had given me a week. I had no intention of serving my full term.

The cell was smaller than that at Newgate and was a miserable a hole as can be imagined. The dictum of 'hard bed, hard board and hard labour' had been taken to heart and great care had been taken to eradicate any concession to comfort.

Where I had had a hammock before, now I had three planks on which to rest my head. The floor was bare flagstones, closely fitted so that I struggled to press a fingernail between them. The walls were made from solid blocks of stone, dull and unresponsive to the rapping of my knuckles. Communication with neighbouring cells was out of the question. The only break in this lime-washed monotony was a small window fitted with strong glass and an iron grill against the outside wall, and the door opposite, which was firmly bolted from the outside.

I had discarded the notion of escape from my cell before setting foot in the place. The scenario of the prisoner digging his way out through a tunnel was the stock in trade of the shilling shockers. The window was out of the question, being too small for me to pass through, even if I could have devised a means of removing the glass with only a wooden spoon.

If I were to leave this cell, it would have to be the same way I entered – by the door. This would mean either overpowering a warder, donning his clothes and simply walking out or finding a means of leaving my cell before anyone knew I had gone. Neither of these options was entirely satisfactory. The first depended on my finding a warder sufficiently similar in appearance so that I could pass for him without question. Without hair, that would not be easy. The second involved my finding a way of opening my cell from the inside or, better still, of devising a method of not being in it at all.

This was not as improbable as it sounded. My time would not be entirely spent in the cell. The doctor had mentioned the treadwheel and doubtless there would be other reasons to venture beyond these four walls. Attendance at chapel would be one and exercise in the outer yards another. At any of those times, I was certain an opportunity would present itself to slip away.

It would take cunning and close observation on my part, but I never doubted it could be done. Postern was not the first prison from which an inmate had escaped and nor would it be the last. If I did fail in my attempt, it would not be through want of ingenuity on my part. Then I would have my answer as to how Vamberry had managed to evade justice, not because he was more intelligent than I was, but because he had had help, and mostly likely from inside. I had not met the governor yet, but he was foremost on my list. It would be a poor administrator indeed who did not know what was afoot in his own prison.

But solitude, and lack of tobacco to a man accustomed to having a ready supply, can do strange things to the mind.

Doubt begins to seep in like dampness into a tenement, causing certainty to rot and leaving an ugly stain upon conviction. I thought back to Endymion and his strange ways, and had difficulty in seeing him coming to such a place to give succour to a man under sentence of death. How credible a witness _was_ he, this jittery, zealous, eccentric cousin of mine? I should not have liked to rely on his evidence in a witness box, yet here I was, incarcerated by choice on his word, attempting what even the officials said was impossible.

I told myself that it was not entirely Endymion's word, but that of the Jermyn Street tailor to whom Vamberry had gone as a customer. Given time to think about it, the more unlikely it seemed that a man who had escaped the gallows should dally in the country of his arrest and not hurry abroad where there were fewer people to recognise him. Had such a tale appeared in a work of fiction, even the most credulous of souls would have had trouble believing it, let alone accepting that he had lingered in London to improve his wardrobe.

Perhaps Vamberry had been hanged, just as the reports had said. Perhaps the tailor was mistaken, since the quality of the picture I had shown him was poor to say the least. Perhaps Endymion was a raving lunatic as his elder brother was fond of saying, and I had allowed myself to be deceived in the misguided hope of justifying my place in this world.

If so, they would be laughing at me at Scotland Yard now. Worse, it would mean that I had been utterly on the wrong track. Between their ridicule and acknowledgement of my own folly, I was torn over which was bitterest gall to swallow.

That was the least of my worries for the present, however, for my period of isolation was not to last long. At a little after twelve, or so I judged from the sonorous tolling of the prison bell somewhere in the yard outside, began a series of entrances, all of them intrusive and all unwelcome. The only thing to be said in their favour was that it stopped me dwelling on other matters.

First came a man who introduced himself as Mr Barnett the schoolmaster, a dull-eyed, cynical man, as cadaverous as a corpse and with the solemn manner of a gravedigger to match. His questions as to my education were few, centring principally on whether or not I knew my letters.

On the whole, I decided that ignorance was to be preferred over intelligence. It had served the Emperor Claudius to good purpose, as the history books tell us, and I perceived that it was better to thought to have little Latin and even less Greek than to admit to my schooling at the best educational establishments in the land.

Henry Holmes thus answered in the negative to all of Mr Barnett's questions, and Sherlock had to be told to keep his silence when the schoolmaster held up a piece of paper on which was transcribed the words: 'I am a sinner', and asked whether I knew what it said. At my professed confusion, he had made as noise of exasperation at the back of his throat and had added a single note to my file. If he had known I was capable of reading upside the word 'stupid', perhaps he would not have been so blatant about it.

He also wanted to know if I had a profession. Since the Guild of Unofficial Consulting Detectives had yet to find its place amongst the City Livery Companies, I thought it best to say that I knew no trade beyond thievery.

"What, nothing at all?" he had said with evident disgust.

"No, sir."

"It is nothing to be proud of," was his retort, which for a schoolmaster showed scant regard for the proper construction of a sentence, culminating as it did with a preposition. "Well, something will be found for you, have no doubt. You do know what a needle and cotton is, I suppose? Good. Then you can start by sewing trousers. If you prove you are capable of stitching one piece of material to another, we might move you onto to something else. We have shoemakers, wheelwrights, plasterers and all sorts here – one of them might be persuaded to take you on."

He finished by reading out to me a list of the rules and regulations of the prison, chief among them being the strict observance of silence at all times, unless permitted to do otherwise by a member of the prison staff. No communication with the outside world was permitted for three months, after which time I could have one visitor or send one letter, if I could find someone willing to write it for me, but only one in any six month period. Furthermore, I was to wash daily – this he said with emphasis; clearly the doctor had been saying unkind things about my state of cleanliness – and fresh linen was to be provided for me once a week.

Finally came a caution. Any infraction of the rules would incur a punishment, which would be at the discretion of the governor according to the nature and severity of the offence. I would be well advised, so he said, to obey the rules and keep out of trouble, for Governor Merridew was not a man to tolerate fools or refractory prisoners lightly. Nor should I make myself too comfortable; my solitary confinement was temporary, as was the practice with new inmates, and tomorrow I should be moved in with the rest of the prison population.

This last was news to me. Any plans I had made would have to set aside until I had gained a greater understanding of the place and its daily routine. Escape from a cell was one thing; to do so under the gaze of fellow prisoners and warders was another matter.

Despondency was a luxury I was not permitted, for no sooner had Barnett absented himself than dinner arrived. It was a soup day, not that the stolid mixture of brown vegetables, brown meat and brown gravy wallowing in my tin pannikin looked anything like soup that I had ever seen.

They say that the enjoyment of a meal begins with the eyes, and on that basis I was not over-enthusiastic. Having had very little since the previous day save the bread and cheese they had given us on the journey to Postern, however, I could not afford to be fussy. I ate, and was mildly surprised for it tasted better than it looked. The amount of spices contained therein made me speculate as to the freshness of the meat, but what the eye does not see, the stomach may tolerate, at least until the first discomforts of food poisoning make themselves known.

I should have preferred to have slept off my meal, but the warder had other ideas. I was presented with six pound bag of tarred rope and told I would have to spend the rest of day employed in 'picking' it. What this meant was untwisting the rope into separate strands and rolling them into fluffy balls. The resulting loose hemp, or oakum as it is popularly known, would then be sold on to be used for caulking wooden seams and packing pipe joints.

I was not so ignorant of prison practice that this meaningless labour came as a surprise. But in my current state of mind, the prospect of three and a half hours spent picking oakum was unappealing, so say nothing of the futility of the exercise. That I did not act upon my impulses says more for my self-discipline than my willingness to immerse myself in a role. There was nothing to be gained from being considered turbulent on my first day, and there were worse things than unravelling pieces of rope. Barnett had mentioned the crank – a handle to be turned for a set number of rotations – and flogging as possible punishments for misdemeanours and I was in no hurry to test the governor's patience.

I shall not dwell upon the monotony of the work. There is only so much one can say about a routine that fills the air with dust particles and the smell of hemp, breaks the nails and tears at the fingers. After such labour, one may have had a right to expect a hearty supper. What I got was bread and a half-pint of gruel, and that as unctuous a concoction as ever I had tasted.

Thereafter followed another three hours of work, not oakum picking this time, but a primitive form of tailoring. I was given several pieces cut to size of the same grey broad cloth I was wearing and told to fashion them into trousers.

For a man of gentle birth, the correct usage of a needle and cotton is not something learnt either in the nursery or in school. One does not linger at Mother's knee to learn the merits of the running stitch over the cross stitch. Necessity of late had forced me to effect several repairs to my clothes, but I did not number it amongst my list of talents. The task was made harder by the failing light and I struggled to see with only the dim glow of a lantern. By the time I had finished, my eyes were aching from the strain, my back crippled by bending to the light and my fingers pricked and bleeding.

What I had to show for three hours' work was not impressive. Somehow I had managed to sew up the trouser bottoms on one pair and had made another with one leg shorter than the other. The warder said it would never do and that I would have to unpick them and start over again. To my relief, he announced that it could wait until the morrow. With the day at an end, I collapsed onto the bed and tried to make myself as comfortable as a man may when his mattress consists of three planks.

I did not sleep well. Indeed, I am not sure that I passed more than ten minutes at a time with my eyes closed. The boards were unforgiving, the blanket had a strange, musty smell about it and the cell was mercilessly cold. When the lantern finally failed in the small hours at a time when the window glass was reamed with frost, my only source of heat went with it. I lay in the dark and shivered and coughed until my chest ached and my head throbbed.

By the time exhaustion, or perhaps insidious hypothermia, finally gave me rest, the prison was beginning to stir. No sooner had I closed my eyes than the bell was ringing. On a bitterly cold January morning, I was obliged to drag myself from bed at six o'clock, wash in water so chilled that a thin coating of ice had formed on its surface, tidy my cell, and spend an hour unpicking my work from the night before. I nodded fitfully over the task, and was barely conscious in time for the arrival of breakfast, yet more bread to be washed down with a pint of tepid cocoa. At eight o'clock, I was finally liberated from my cell and joined a solemn line of grey men with faces to match the heavy skies above trooping down to the chapel.

The heat as one entered made the cheeks smart. Someone had seen fit to light a fire, making the atmosphere in the chapel less akin to heaven than hell. A line of benches was provided for the prisoners separated from the body of the chapel by heavy spiked railings, and onto the narrow planks we jostled together, watched over by a warder at either end of the line, and took our prayers in silence, save for the sonorous voice of the clergyman.

I did not hear much of the sermon. I believe it was something about calling the sinner to righteousness, delivered in a voice that rang with boredom, as though the speaker had become demoralised with having to say the same thing many times over to little effect. The heat of the place and my lack of sleep made my eyelids heavy and several times I jerked upright from my slumbers after an elbow was driven into my ribs. The rules had not stipulated anything about punishments for those who slept during chapel, although I did not doubt that it was not encouraged. I nodded to my neighbour, a large, brawny man with a broken nose, for his consideration and hoped that my slip had not been noticed.

Nothing escaped the eyes of the warders and no sooner had chapel come to an end than I was separated from the mass of prisoners and marched through a maze of corridors to the governor's office. Inside, the room was warm, and smelled of furniture wax, coffee and tobacco, a torment to a bereft man. To one side stood a flaxen-hair man of about thirty-five in a warder's uniform with the air of the military about him and a permanent sneer on his face. At the sizable desk, an older man sat writing, his dark head bent over his work, and the name plate facing me bearing the name of Governor George Merridew.

Tall and stocky, he had a square face and tidy black hair, turning to grey at the fringes. The eyes were perhaps a little too close together for the face to be considered handsome, but there was no mistaking the authority in the gaze that swept over me when he finally laid down his pen and took stock of the prisoner brought before him. A long moment passed in awkward silence as he regarded me over steepled fingers, his black eyes cool and appraising beneath his heavy brows.

"Holmes, prison number 221B," said he, reading from the page before him, a slight Somerset accent in his voice. "A new inmate, Mr Webb?"

The flaxen-haired man nodded. "Admitted yesterday, Governor."

"And in trouble already? Dear me, it's not a good start, is it?" His eyes bored into mine, forcing me to look away. "Are you an atheist?"

I hesitated. He took it for ignorance and tried again.

"Are you a godless man?"

"No, sir," I replied.

"Are you a Biblical scholar then?"

If I were, that would make me as old as Methuselah, but Merridew did not appear the type of man with whom I would want to bandy words over correct grammatical usage.

"No, sir."

"I only ask," said Merridew mildly, "because a man who sleeps through his prayers does so either because he knows it all or does not care to know." The eyes hardened. "What's your reason?"

"I was tired, sir."

"Oh, you were tired. Well, that makes all the difference. Mr Webb, we appear to have a delicate soul in our care." His smile was pure malice, making his eyes narrow and darken to the colour of coal. "I'll tell you what I'm going to do for you, Holmes. You can have the day off so you can get your rest. How does that sound?"

"Wouldn't a flogging wake him up, Governor?" said Webb with rather too much relish for the task for my liking. "Regan's due for twenty of the best at ten." He stared hard at me. "We've always room for another at the whipping post."

"First time offence, Mr Webb," said Merridew reprovingly. "I think we can give him the benefit of the doubt this time. Isn't that right, Holmes?"

I nodded. "I'm sorry, sir."

"Yes, you shall be. I can't let this go without a punishment. It sets a bad example, you understand. You'll spend the day in the dark cell on bread and water. You'll get all the rest you need there. See to it, Webb."

The interview was short, succinct and at an end. With Webb leading and a warder either side of me, we descended into the bowels of the prison, where its early inmates had sunk cellars into the marshy earth and had driven the foundations deep, building on bulky brick pillars which showed old cracks caused by strain and subsidence. Amongst the collection of broken chairs and tools wallowing in pools of rising marsh water, five metal doors set into the wall gleamed as the light of the lantern glanced across them.

"Home sweet home," said Webb, pushing open the nearest door and allowing the light to fall on an interior devoid of fittings or furniture. "Dark, isn't it?" He chuckled. "That's why they call it the dark cell. In you go like a good boy."

I was propelled forward into gloom. By the time I turned, a jug and a tin plate with a half loaf of bread had been pushed in behind me. I checked myself, but not in time. The jug wobbled and fell, wetting the glistening floor with its precious contents.

"Clumsy," said Webb, grinning all the more. "That was meant to last you till morning. Well, I'll say goodnight. Sleep well and… sweet dreams."

* * *

_**Hmm, not going well, is it? And Merridew, strange, but that name seems familiar...**_

_**Continued in Chapter Five!**_


	6. Chapter Five

_**The Particular Problem of Postern Prison**_

**Chapter Five**

Never has a day hung so heavily.

Never has twenty-four hours seemed like an eternity, with each unmarked second stretched to its limits, each minute prolonged unnecessarily and my own endurance pushed to its breaking point.

We are told that one never knows of what one is capable until the moment comes. If this was my moment, then it came and lingered in silence and darkness and cloying damp and wretched coldness.

I comforted myself with the thought this was a temporary set-back, that tomorrow I would be free again to recommence my plans for escaping this place. I am not by nature a fanciful man or one prone those debilitating attacks suffered by those with a fear of confined spaces, but there were times during that endless night when I had the strongest sense that the walls were closing in on me.

In such cases, the rational mind may find its comfort in the infallibility of the scientific approach. One of the first things I had done was to pace out the limits of my cell. I knew that I was contained within twelve feet by nine feet of moist brick wall. The corners farthest from the door were pungent with smells more associated with urinals, and here the ground was soggy from recent usage. Placing one foot in front of the other, I could complete the perimeter in forty-three steps, a fact which puzzled me at first until I discovered that one wall was out of true, thus accounting for the extra step.

Thus I walked when I grew tired of sitting and sat when my legs began to ache. Sleep came fitfully, offering some relief from that bane of the active mind, ennui. It takes the loss of one's freedom truly appreciate the difference between lacking anything to do and having inactivity forced upon one. No better form of torment could have been devised for me than this. It was exquisite in its simplicity. To do nothing was foreign to me. Even in my bleakest moments, there had always been something to read or a problem to consider or a mystery to be solved.

But here, with eyes that could see nothing, with ears that could hear nothing, with the taste of foul air in my mouth and the assault of decay and excrement in my nostrils and nothing but a damp floor and wet bricks to touch, I had exhausted the extent of my available stimuli. With nothing to occupy myself, my mind had raced, unfettered like an engine out of control, rending, screeching, feeding on itself and entering those places even darker than my prison cell. So it was that I was released the next morning a shivering, hungry, dirty, humbled shambles of a man, shaking as much from having to face some uncomfortable truths about myself as from the cold and deprivation.

To excel in my chosen profession, to become that ideal reasoner able to look at a problem from a distance and apply mind and logic in the pursuit of its solution, one must rid oneself of extraneous emotion. It is mere lumber to the intellect and like all unnecessary clutter must be disposed of before the beauty of pure reason may flourish. I had thought I had tamed it, broken it, bridled it and driven it into its stall. Yet I was deceiving myself if I imagined I had succeeded. Why else had I subjected myself to these indignities if not through pride? I had excused myself under the guise of pretending I was acting in the interests of justice, but if truth be told all it had taken was the throwing down of the proverbial gauntlet. I had acted rashly in taking up the challenge, as Gregson had known I would. It had been too much of a temptation, and I had been too eager to prove myself.

If I had been guilty of pride, I was suffering for my sin. I was also being cured of it. The pride I had taken in my appearance had been stripped from me with the loss of my hair and the drab clothes into which I had been forced. The satisfaction I had taken from being myself, Sherlock Holmes, was being eroded by the creeping influence of that ignorant, flea-ridden criminal we had christened Henry Holmes. It was as Henry that I emerged from the dark cell and as Henry fell upon the food brought for breakfast. I ate like a starving man, licking my fingers to sweep up the last crumb from my plate and drinking with such eagerness that the liquid escaped my mouth to dribble down my chin.

Only when I noticed the other prisoners staring at me did the change register. Appalled, I told myself it was necessary for the role. I knew deep down that it ran deeper, that all it had taken was the tedious monotony of a day deprived of light and activity to worry at my inner man. Boredom is stagnation by another name, and to stagnate is to die. This need for stimulus, or conversely fear of tedium, would in later years drive me to less excusable excesses; for now, however, my drug of choice was work, and the warders were happy to accommodate me.

This time, my fingers were to be spared. Instead, I was sent to the treadwheel with the prospect of ten hours on the mill ahead of me.

I was not wholly ignorant of what was expected of me, but nevertheless it was a daunting prospect. The treadwheel was set in its own shed away from the other areas of the prison in a windowless building that presented nothing but planked wood and knot holes for the amusement of the inmates. Inside, the atmosphere was stifling, hot from the confinement of so many bodies and reeking of stale sweat from the effort of their labours. The noise was terrific as the great wheel turned and the prisoners climbed ever upwards, twenty-four steps to nowhere, round and round thirty times until the bell rang to end their spell of work and allow a brief respite. At the furthest end, the wall showed the shadow of a structure that had once hidden the wheels and cogs that connected the mill for the grinding of the prison's flour. A change in legislation, which decreed that that wheel should have no other purpose than for punishment, brought an end to this arrangement, and now the prisoners ground their flour by hand and the wheel produced nothing but sweat and scraped ankles.

If one is to face a blank wall, separated from his neighbours by wooden screens with only a splinter-ridden handrail for support, one would wish that one's energy was not being expended in vain. I have spent few days engaged in less profitless an enterprise as this. I learned nothing, expect perhaps how to maintain a steady rhythm, to step in time with the other men and not to lag behind. Stubbed toes and raw skin are good teachers to any who may be slow to learn this lesson. A few lapses in concentration had already left me with bleeding shins and thereafter I was careful not to slip again.

When the bell sounded and I staggered from my position, it was to find that what distinguished the older hands from the newer inmates was the speed of their recovery. Whilst I panted, coughed until my ribs ached and found myself bathed in perspiration, others showed few ill-effects at all. One fellow, a small, wiry, fox-faced man of about thirty-five, appeared so little troubled by the ordeal that he was able to pass a few words with the warders and to laugh even as he was descending the steps and giving up his place at the mill to another.

This behaviour, though admirable in the face of exhausting work, I noticed did not go down well with the other prisoners. Distinct groups formed on the benches to which only the chosen few were admitted and allowed to share the muttered conversations which the noise of the wheel drowned out and hid from the ears of the warders. A number of men were clearly marked out as new inmates by their sitting apart from established groupings. My laughing, chattering friend too was alone and it occurred to me that if I were to learn anything to my advantage at all from this bleak experience then it would be from someone who had been in the system long enough to understand how it worked.

"Mind if I sit down?" I asked, gesturing to the empty space to his left. The benches had filled so rapidly after our session had ended that I had a legitimate excuse for my inquiry.

"Be my guest," he said genially. "You look as though you need it."

I sat, relieved to take the weight off my feet and aching ankles, all the while aware of his close scrutiny. For his size, his head seemed too large for his body, yet he was not ungainly. There was a certain pride taken in his appearance even in this drab prison dress, for his collar was immaculate and his chin newly shaved. Beyond these walls, I pictured him as being dapper, well-educated and with a respectable upbringing. Prison life had erased the nature of his livelihood from his hands, and I was forced to speculate as to the crime that had brought him to Postern. I dismissed the possibility of his being a clerk driven to thievery by an unsupportable gambling habit, for, despite a certain air of dissipation, he exuded that quiet confidence befitting a man content with his own company and assured of his own intelligence. I flattered myself that I had perhaps found a kindred spirit, if not in profession then in wits.

"You're new, aren't you?" he asked at length, his lowered voice carrying the vestiges of a Welsh accent.

"Yes, this is my second–" I checked myself, remembering the lost day I had spent in the dark cell. "My third day here."

"New to prison, I meant."

"Is it that obvious?"

He summoned a wintry smile. "You get to recognise the signs. We were all as bemused as you are, once. It passes."

His gaze shifted to the warders who were positioned either end of the wheel on structures that resembled reading lecterns. The work was as much an ordeal for them as for their charges, for both men were engrossed in their newspapers. Satisfied that we were not being observed, my companion offered his hand.

"Mosteyn Jones," said he.

"Henry Holmes."

"Ah, yes, the sleeper."

I shook my head, not understanding.

"You were the one who dared to nod during chapel yesterday. I gather you were sent to the dark cell?"

The experience was still raw enough to send a chill of dread through my insides. "Yes, I was."

"It's hard on a man, but it could have been worse. Governor Merridew takes his religion very seriously. He's had men flogged before now for lesser offences than that."

"He did mention something of the kind."

"He probably gave you the benefit of the doubt on account of it being a first offence. Merridew is hard but fair, I'll say that for him." Then, he added, almost as an afterthought: "What are you in for?"

"Thieving. I got eighteen months. You?"

"Crimes against the person. No, not what you're thinking," said he, grinning in the mistaken belief that his revelation had shaken me. "Crimes against a person's finances, to be accurate."

"You're a thief?"

"That surprises you? You think robbing church poor boxes and stealing money from widows and orphans not quite my style? Well, you're right there. I'm not a thief in the sense the law defines it or as you know it, Holmes. I've never taken money from anyone who couldn't afford to lose it."

"You consider yourself a latter-day Robin Hood?"

Jones smothered a laugh as the nearest warder gave a sharp look in our direction. "I've certainly stolen from the rich, but as for giving it to the poor, I'm afraid I'm not that altruistic. Unless you count me of course, a poor, jobbing artist, trained at the Royal Academy schools, reducing to casting his pearls before swine and prostituting his talents for money. And then, one day, I found a more profitable enterprise. Can you guess it, I wonder?"

I could have replied that I did not need to guess and tried never to do so, harmful as it was to the logical faculty, which had in any case already provided me with the answer.

"Forgery."

His smile faded fractionally. "Well, I never. Yes, forgery. It is no small boast to say that I was very good at it. Are you familiar with Turner's _Fighting Temeraire_ in the National Gallery?"

I stared at him. "That isn't one of yours, surely?"

"No, but it will be one day. The current owner of my exquisitely-rendered reproduction has a hankering to own the genuine article. He has plans to make the switch in the near future."

He clearly took a great deal of pride in his achievement, as well he might if he were talking of anything but a crime in the planning. I did not doubt that it demanded considerable skill to be able to replicate another's artistic technique to such a degree that the experts were deceived, but whilst I was prepared to admit to his talent, I could not condone his morals.

"And yet you were caught?" I said.

Jones smiled ruefully. "I supplied a passable work purporting to be by Fra Angelico to a disreputable London gallery, who in turn sold it to an elderly matron with much money and little taste. Unfortunately, she had sense enough to consult an expert, who in turn asked for provenance. Instead of pretending that it had been found in someone's loft, the gallery owner pointed the finger at me. When the police came, I was working on a Stubbs – and had another copy of the Fra Angelico still wet on the easel." He gave a light shrug. "Under such circumstances, it would have foolhardy to contest the charge. I pleaded guilty and got five years."

"How long have you served?"

"Three. Six more months here and then I'm being shipped out to Broadmore. From what I've heard, compared to this place, it's as near to Paradise as man can find in prison." He took his eyes from the warders momentarily to glance across at me. "Have they told you where you'll be going?"

I shook my head. "I've only just arrived."

"Well, don't get comfortable. You won't be here long."

"Why?"

"Haven't you heard? Postern's to be closed down by the summer. We're all being moved on. If they brought you here, it's only because they had nowhere else to put you for the time being. I shouldn't be at all surprised if you're out of here in a couple of weeks."

"That soon?"

"No one stays here long, Holmes, not even the warders," Jones said ominously. "Everyone leaves eventually, and not always upright either. There's ten died while I've been here, and that's only two months ago. If I last another six months, I'll count myself lucky."

"Died of what?"

"Fever mostly. Postern's not good for a man's health. Especially not for the condemned. No one has ever had a last minute reprieve. I doubt they're about to break with precedent for Morgan."

The name seemed familiar, although I could not immediately recall the details of the case.

"Morgan the poisoner," Jones explained. "You must have heard of him. He had a habit of marrying rich old women and then bumping them off. Well, they're hanging him next week. It'll be the last execution carried out here at Postern." He shuddered. "I for one won't be sorry not to hear that bell ring again. They say you can't hear the doors open execution shed, but I heard Vamberry drop last Saturday for certain."

At last, after so many wasted hours, I had my first lead in the case. "Vamberry?" I asked, feigning ignorance. "They hanged him?"

"They said he was insensible. They had to carry him to it, so one of the new warders told me, and he murmuring all the time that he was innocent. He said it was a terrible thing to see. No bad thing for him that he's to be transferred out of Postern before Morgan hangs."

"Did you know Vamberry?"

"No, I wouldn't do business with that sort of man, no matter how desperate I was."

"I meant by sight."

"The condemned don't mix with the rest of us. We're told it's bad for morale, though for whose, I couldn't say. I did see him once, at chapel the Sunday before his execution. That's the only time they let them out of their cell. And for the hanging of course. The rest of the time they're under close supervision day and night."

The bell chimed, signalling a respite for those on the wheel and the resumption of labour for us. Jones rose, brushing the dust of the shed from his trousers. As I stood to join him, there was a sudden cry, and I looked up in time to see a man falling, his arms flailing as his hands slipped from the handrail and his feet from the rungs. The perpetual motion of wheel made him somersault like an arthritic tumbler, his body crashing against the wood as he fell. He hit the floor hard, the sickening sound of bone breaking preceding his howl of agony as he writhed and clasped at the bleeding wound in his leg where a glistening white shard had pierced his flesh.

For a moment, no one knew how to react, so accustomed were the other prisoners with being told what to do and obeying without question. I started forward, my natural instinct to help the injured man, and it was only Jones's hand on my arm that stayed my progress. It was left to the warders to bring the wheel to a halt, to send one man to fetch the doctor and to order others to haul the moaning prisoner over to the benches while the rest of us huddled in the corner and tried to stay out of the way.

Had anyone been of such a mind, it would have been the ideal time to make good an escape. With the attention of the warders diverted and lost in such a crowd of prisoners, a man could have slipped out of the door and took to his heels before anyone noticed he was missing. And yet, everywhere I looked, I saw meek, cowed men, keeping their heads down, doing what they were told and staying out of trouble. Although many may have shared my thought, none dared put it into action, and that included me.

As good an opportunity as it was, now was not the time. I knew precious little about the layout of the prison and even less about how many doors lay between me and freedom. That information I could get from Jones. Then, suitably armed, I could manufacture my own diversion and arrive back in London in time for supper, much to the surprise and no doubt chagrin of Gregson, thus proving that Postern was not as infallible as legend would have us believe.

That I could do it, however, did not mean that Vamberry had. Jones had heard the hanging, or what he thought was a hanging taking place. If Vamberry had escaped, to save face and cover the fact that a condemned man was loose, Merridew could have gone through the motions, knowing that the other prisoners would bear witness to what they had heard. That did not explain the testimony of the new warder to Vamberry's state of mind when the sentence of execution was carried out. I conjectured that his silence and the tale he told to Jones could have been bought – all men have their price, after all. Viewed in that light, his transferral to another more hospitable prison could be seen as part of a bargain struck.

I was turning these questions over in my mind when the order came for us to take a step back to allow the doctor room to work. The back of the large man lunged towards me at an alarming rate and I fell back to avoid injury to my toes. In my haste, I collided with the warder's perch, causing his newspaper to fall. As I gathered up the pages, my eye was caught by a half-column detailing an incident in Whitehall the day before when a Scotland Yard Inspector had been shot and seriously injured whilst trying to assist the unhappy victims of a collision between a hansom and a beer wagon.

A thrill of horror ran through me as I read the name. The detective whose life now hung in the balance was Tobias Gregson.

* * *

_**Just when he thought things couldn't get any worse! Do we believe in coincidence?**_

_**Continued in Chapter Six!**_


	7. Chapter Six

_**The Particular Problem of Postern Prison**_

**Chapter Six**

"You're planning something."

It was another day, much like yesterday and many, many more tomorrows to come. Another day spent staring at a blank wall with ten thousand pointless steps to make between breakfast and supper, followed by bed, followed by sleep, and then the same mindless routine all over again and again. This would continue, day in, day out, until my will rotted into mute submission and my health broke under the stress.

That much was certain, unless I found a way to end it. My fate lay in my own hands and the power of my own ingenuity.

With Gregson dead or dying, there would be no remission once my week was up. The challenge he had set me had ceased to have relevance in terms of personal pride. Escaping had become a matter of self-preservation. If the thought of another week of this turgid misery was bad enough, then the prospect of eighteen months was dire.

I had given it a great deal of consideration during the long night. Whilst the other men slept, mumbled, snored and sobbed, I had lain in the dark of the communal dormitory, buttressed against the cold in a blanket and the folds of my hammock, and pondered my future. My choice was simple: to wait or to act. The former depended on Gregson's recovery or the hope that he had not kept his word in keeping our arrangement silent, but had spread the news about my willing imprisonment, much to the amusement of his colleagues.

If no one knew, as I suspected, then I was a prisoner. Sherlock Holmes had ceased to exist, and this flea-ridden, detestable figure with his shorn head, hacking cough, bleeding feet and calloused hands had taken his place.

To act then, to save myself and salvage what little reputation I had left. To escape, as I had planned, and with no time to waste, if what I suspected was true.

Timing was everything. A man evaded justice and several days later the detective responsible for his arrest was shot. Cause and effect, obviously. But was it? I had no proof, except the strongest sense that this was not a coincidence. Every instinct I had revolted against the possibility. Instinct, however, is not valued very highly by the courts. Evidence was what was needed: strong, indisputable facts, all of which were lost to me while I was cooling my heels in this self-imposed hell-hole. I had every reason in the world to escape, and not an inkling of how it was to be sensibly accomplished.

I had not got much past the diversion stage of my planning when the voice of Mosteyn Jones cut through my thoughts. We had completed two sessions on the wheel and were taking our second break of the morning. He was as fresh and unconcerned as ever, stepping lightly to his task whilst I had been struggling under the combined weight of poor sleep and aching muscles. I could work or I could think; doing both had already cost me large slivers of skin from my shins when my concentration had wandered from the steady rhythm demanded by the mill. The bared flesh smarted and stung where the drying blood made the material of my trousers cling to the wound, and each tug from the skin made the blood run afresh, wetting my stockings and drying between my toes.

It had its uses. Pain had sharpened my mind and provided the necessary focus. All I required now was space and solitude for thinking. What I got was the relentless throb of the wheel and thud of boots on wood on one hand, and Jones and his inquisitiveness on the other.

"I said you're planning something," he reiterated when I realised that the more I ignored him the more persistent he would become. "You've got the look of a man with a purpose."

Trust is dangerous when one has to rely on it. Most emphatically, I did not trust Jones, and therefore I discounted him. That I still had much to learn from him about the workings of prison life at Postern was certain, but it was destined to be a one-sided relationship. I was interested only in what information he had to offer. It was not my intention to have company in my escape.

"What purpose would I have in here?" I replied.

"You'd be surprised," said he, undeterred by my coolness. "Men get all sorts of strange ideas in their heads. Escaping, for instance." He let the thought linger. "Don't do it, Holmes."

There was something about his voice that made me look at him. His expression was one of genuine concern, worn so fleetingly that for a moment I was sure I had been mistaken.

"What makes you think I'm considering escape?"

"We all think it, in the early days. We harbour foolish notions of slipping past the guards and making a run for it. We make our plans and tell ourselves that all we need is the right moment. Except it never comes. One week passes, then another, and we try to pretend that there is still a chance, that tomorrow might be the day. But the truth is, we don't try because we know that there is no escape. The longer you hang onto that hope, the more it will eat away at you."

His voice was hollow as he spoke, leaving me in no doubt that he was drawing from his own experience.

"The sooner you accept it, the happier you'll be."

"Happy? Do you claim to be happy living like this?"

"No. Content to wait, perhaps. I don't deny that I made a mistake. A man can learn from that. When I leave this place, I will not be coming back. Until the day I am able to walk out of here a free man, I am a prisoner, Number 736F. We're like caged birds here – open the door and we won't fly out, because that we know that cage will be waiting. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"That I should serve my sentence without complaint."

"If you strain after freedom, when it comes you won't be able to appreciate it. You'll be broken, in here," he said, patting his chest. "If you don't believe me, look at Regan."

He inclined his head in the direction of a man who sat at the end of the bench apart from the others. The very picture of dejection, his head was bowed, his shoulders slumped and his hands hung limply between his knees. His eyes were fixed on the floor, his thoughts far from the hot shed and the noise and misery of a sentence of hard labour.

"Wasn't he man who was flogged?"

"One of the severest penalties they have here. Now what do you think he did to deserve twenty lashes across his bare back?"

"He tried to escape?"

"He got desperate, silly fool. He'd had a letter from home, bad news if I'm any judge of it, for he'd been like a mad bull ever since he received it. They had him in solitary for a week and they thought it had calmed him down. When they got him in here, he was as meek as a lamb, right up till the moment when he assaulted the warders. He took their keys and made it as far as the outer gates with the lads cheering him on the way."

"What stopped him?"

"Overwhelming numbers," said Jones unconcernedly, picking at his teeth. "If you're going to make an escape, the night is the time to do it, not the middle of the day. Too many eyes about, and I'm not just talking about the warders."

This was news. It put paid to my fledgling plans for attempting an escape from the mill shed.

"Take my advice. Do your time and stay out of trouble." He leant close, lowering his voice. "And trust no one. Remember that. It's us against them while they've got the upper hand, but given half a chance it's every man for himself. You have no friends in here."

"Not even you?"

He chuckled soundlessly. "Not even me. I'd sell you out as soon as look at you, if I thought you were worth anything."

"I'm not," I said returning the gesture. "And I'm not planning anything either."

He smiled and nodded. We understood each other. Temptation could test the worthiest of souls. Not that I ranked Jones amongst their number. Even if I had, I would not have trusted him. Men have betrayed confidences before for meaner sums than thirty pieces of silver.

What Jones had told me was a set-back, but not insurmountable. My plans were adjusted accordingly. The dull routine became an opportunity for observation. I counted doors when I was bent over my school books. I watched the movements of the warders as I took my meals. I listened to their hushed conversations as they huddled around the stoves in the dead of night and closed my eyes in pretence of sleep when their footsteps passed by my hammock. By the next day, I was ready.

I began by getting myself excused from another tiring day on the mill. During a work session, I had snapped my needle, much to the annoyance of the warder on duty. What he did not know when he furnished me with another and took the broken shard away with him was that I had retained the tip and had hidden in it my lapel. As the first session on the treadwheel drew to a close, I plucked out the sliver of metal and drove it into the soft tissue at the back of my tongue. When the bell rang for the changeover, I was able to put on a convincing show of being able to cough up enough blood to be sent without delay to the infirmary.

Dr Martin was not pleased to see me. His examination was as perfunctory as ever, and his quick glance into my mouth missed the still-oozing wound from where I had removed the needle. In his considered opinion, my condition was nothing more sinister than a burst blood vessel. To be sure, however, I was to spend the night in the hospital ward before being sent back to work the next day.

I was grateful for the rest and slept as sound as the dead on the first proper bed I had had since my incarceration began. The mattress was not particularly soft, but it had the luxury of remaining in one place and did swing and move about like the hammock. The pillow was hard and lumpy, even that welcome after the thinnest of bolsters, and the blankets were warm and smelled faintly of carbolic. I slept, and awoke as the winter's light was fading from the sky and the long shadows were starting to creep across the floor of the ward to find that I had company.

In the bed next to mine, an elderly man was lying on his side, his head cradled in his hand and his genial brown eyes never wavering from a close study of my face. The weight of his stare was disconcerting, especially as he appeared to blink very little, and the permanent smile he wore made me think that either he found something about me very amusing or he was woolly-minded. Even when I turned my back on him, I was aware that he was still staring until I could bear his interest no longer.

"Something you want?" I demanded.

His wrinkled face creased into a broader smile, revealing a mouth with few remaining teeth, like toppled tombstones in a neglected cemetery.

"Make you uncomfortable, does I? Don't you worry 'bout me, young 'un. I is only John Boy Stevens. I don't get much in the way of visitors here."

"I didn't see you when they brought me in."

"No, young 'un, you wouldn't of done. I was in kitchens, peeling taters. I ain't much use for nowt else nowdays what with this lump in me guts. Old Doc says it'll be the death of me, and I ain't one to disbelieve him. What 'bout you, young 'un?"

"Henry Holmes," I said. "I was taken ill on the mill. The doctor said it isn't serious."

The old man's smile faded and his mood became earnest. "Now you listen to me. You get up out of that there bed and you tell them you're fit, young 'un. Don't you be staying here on account o'me. That there's an unlucky bed. Billy Porter died in them sheets last week, and him frothing at the mouth and rolling his eyes all the while."

I pushed the blankets back and to my disgust saw several faded yellow and brown stains on the bottom sheet.

"How long ago was that?"

"Night afore they had the hanging. Porter was a bad lot, but he'd done his time. Him and Samuel Jarvis was due for release that day. Samuel went but where Porter ended up, he ain't be leaving till the good Lord calls him." He grimaced suddenly and his breathing became agitated. As the pain passed, slowly his face relaxed, his body eased down into the bed and he smiled again. "I'll be joining him afore long out in that bone yard, young 'un, and a mercy it'll be. A safe harbour at long last for an old sailor. But not you, young 'un. You get out of that bed while you still can afore they carry you out like poor Billy Porter."

His eyes closed and he murmured about the fate of the dead man as sleep eased his suffering. As his words trailed away into nothingness, I remembered what Jones had told me about Postern not being good for a man's health. Whatever had carried off the unfortunate Billy Porter I had to hope was not infectious or communicable by ill-laundered sheets.

Unlike Stevens, I did not sleep. My eyes were closed when the doctor came round on his final inspection before leaving for the day. I listened as he told the warder left to sit watch over us during the night that the old man's condition was worsening. If he was taken ill in the night, he was to be given morphine enough to last him till the morning, by which time if he had not already died, Martin would see him then. On no account, the doctor insisted, was he to be sent for; the other guests at his club's annual dinner would miss him far more than a few ailing prisoners.

When the doctor left and the warder took his place by the stove, the prison fell into silence. Doors banged in the distance, the churning treadwheel ground to a halt and lights were extinguished. I lay in the dark for a long time, listening to the uneasy breathing of my fellow patient and the soft snores of the warder, lulled into sleep by the warmth of the fire. Then, when the bell chimed two, I stirred into action.

A swift blow to the back of the head ensured that the warder would not awake until I was long gone. As the man slipped senseless from his chair, I caught him before the sound of his falling body alerted Stevens from his sleep. I took his jacket, trousers, cap and the keys from his belt, bound his hands and gagged him, and left him to sleep off his headache in my bed. Should anyone look in, all would appear normal, just as before.

With coal dust rubbed over my scalp to conceal my bare head, I left the infirmary clad in the warder's clothes. I hurried along half-remembered corridors, passing through the eighteen locked doors standing between me and the estuary marshes. With only the doors leading out into the courtyard left to negotiate, I was near to my goal when through them came another warder. His breath streamed out in a great white plume as he blew on his hands. Seeing me, he nodded a greeting and continued on his way.

My heart was in my mouth as I made it through the doors and out into the moonlit courtyard. Ahead lay the great gates of Postern. Beyond them lay freedom and a long run to the nearest train station. All being well, I would not be missed for another three hours. It was a precious head-start and I did not intend to waste a moment in delay.

In the gatehouse, a dim light shone out from the gatekeeper's lodge. A warder would be on duty. All I had to do was to convince him to let me out, by force if necessary. Whether caused by the cold or the exhilaration of the moment pumping through my veins, my hands were shaking as I tried the doorknob. It gave easily, admitting me into a cramped room, spartan of furniture but well provided with warmth.

In a chair by the pot-bellied stove, a man sat with his back to me, a great coat draped around his shoulders. The gust of cold air made him stir and he turned. In that split second, I saw the coat had been concealing grey prison clothes and shackles around his hands. His eyes wide with alarm and fear, he leapt from the chair, knocking it over in his haste to put space between us. Behind me, the door banged shut and a warder's truncheon came down hard across my shoulders. I staggered and my legs were kicked out from under me, sending me sprawling on the floor. Another kick from a steel-capped boot to my kidneys ensured that I would not be quick to rise again.

Grimacing from the pain, I looked up into the smirking face of Mr Webb. Behind him, Mosteyn Jones still cowered in the corner, a trail of blood drying at the corner of his mouth and his left eye beginning to show the signs of a bruise.

"Well done, Jones," said Webb. "You weren't lying to us, after all. You'll get your reward for this night's work."

"Thank you, Mr Webb," he stammered nervously.

"Jackson, take him back to his cell. Oh, you'd better put him in solitary until we can arrange for him to be shipped out. If word gets round that he's sold out one of his own, he won't make it out of here alive."

One of the warders hauled him away, and as he was dragged past, he spared me a look of shame and pity. "I'm sorry, Holmes," he cried. "I did warn you not to trust anyone."

A blast of cold night air howled around my legs as Jones was taken away. Then the door was closed again, trapping me within the room with its stifling heat and oppressive atmosphere and three unsmiling warders. Whatever Webb had in mind, he was in no hurry. He righted the chair and smiled down at me, the look of a cat with a mouse at its mercy.

"I knew you were going to be a troublemaker the minute I laid eyes on you," he said. "There's always one who's stupid enough to think he can escape and get away with it. But we always know and we always catch them, don't we, lads?"

He was daring me to reply. I was equally determined not to give him the pleasure, not even when I had to bite my lip to suppress the cry that rose up in my throat when one of Webb's fellow warders pressed his foot upon my hand and ground my fingers beneath his boot.

"You see, Holmes," Webb went on unconcernedly, "you might think you're clever, but you're not. You're arrogant, and that's why you failed tonight. You think no one knew what you were planning? Jones knew. He came running straight to us after you got yourself put in the infirmary. Do you know what you were worth to him?"

Still refusing to play his game, my silence earned me a kick in the ribs so hard that my teeth sank into my tongue.

"Governor Merridew said he could have him transferred to Broadmore this week instead of him having to wait until they closed the door on this place if his information was good. I was starting to doubt him, but you didn't let him down. Well, I've been sitting here half the night waiting for you when I should have been home in my bed. I don't like to be kept waiting, not by vermin like you."

At his nod, the other two men hauled me upright.

"Get that jacket off him," said Webb. "We don't want it spoiled." As I was stripped, he flexed his hand and I saw the glint of brass knuckles. "If you want to know what it's like to have blood in your mouth, Holmes, I'm going to give you the chance to find out for real. And then…" He smiled, his eyes glinting yellow like those of a hungry wolf in the dirty glow of the gaslight. "Then we'll see what the Governor has planned for you."

* * *

_**Mosteyn Jones, you rotten little traitor! Well, Mr Holmes won't be escaping just yet…**_

_**Continued in Chapter Seven!**_


	8. Chapter Seven

_**The Particular Problem of Postern Prison**_

**Chapter Seven**

Somewhere in the back of my mouth, a tooth was weeping. I could taste the blood before I extracted the wad of cloth I had packed between my gum and cheek and saw the red stain covering most of its surface.

Gingerly with my tongue I probed towards the epicentre of pain. Each tooth I nudged in turn, until the very last, a wisdom tooth, wobbled, bled afresh and sent spasms of agony through my jaw and into the base of my skull. I plunged my head into the tin basin and swilled water around my mouth, replacing the rawness of pain with the bite of the cold. As the red-stained liquid settled, I stared at an unfamiliar reflection, at a face that was bruised and unshaven, an eye turning purple and half-closed, and lips that were gashed and swollen.

There were supposed to be rules about the ill-treatment of prisoners. Not that laying hands on the men under his charge mattered much to Webb. Like all rules, he took the view that this one in particular was made to be broken. I had been battered until I could not stand and dragged half-senseless to an unfurnished cell to await the coming of the morning and the judgement of Governor Merridew. A bucket of water over my head had gone some way to restoring my senses, as well as washing away most of the dried blood that had congealed about my chin and hair. From there to the governor's office, still stupefied from my beating and stiff and aching from head to foot.

Webb was there, as were the two warders who had held me fast while he had meted out what he considered my due punishment. If his widening grin spoke of the pleasure Webb took from seeing the result of his night's work, Merridew made a good show of being less than impressed.

"What happened to this man?" he had wanted to know.

"Happened when he tried to escape," Webb had said. "He put up a struggle."

Merridew gave his second-in-command a look of disapproval.

"O'Brien and Lee can verify that?"

The two warders nodded their assent.

"Very well," Merridew had said. "I'll see that it is duly noted on his file. Now, as you to you, Holmes." He had sighed and slowly shaken his head in the manner of a disappointed parent. "What am I to do with you? First you pretend to be ill and then you try to escape. Whatever is the matter? Don't you like it here?"

He had been waiting for an answer, but I had been taught well that speaking was not encouraged at Postern. Even if I had had the strength to muster up a reply, my tongue felt too thick and dry to produce sounds that resembled intelligent speech.

"Don't we feed you?" Merridew had persisted. "Don't we provide you with work and schooling? Haven't we tried to make you a better person and a good citizen?"

When my silence had continued, he had nodded to Webb. The warder's hand had arced round and caught me a stinging blow to the back of my head, near knocking me out of the chair.

"I didn't just see you hit that man, did I, Mr Webb?" Merridew had said disinterestedly, turning his gaze away from me to the open file on his desk.

"No, sir. It was an accident. The prisoner got in the way of my hand."

"Very good. We must never forget that it is our duty to lead by example. Even the worst of sinners may be capable of redemption, Mr Webb. We must be patient with them and, where necessary, show them the error of their ways. This prisoner, for example, not here a week and already twice in this office. What do you think we should do with him?"

"Flog him before the other men," Webb had said without hesitation.

Merridew had tutted, sitting back in his chair and smiling tolerantly over his steepled fingers. "The quality of mercy, Mr Webb, is of utmost importance in our work."

"Regan was flogged. Why should Holmes be any different?"

"Regan had his reasons. He needed a short, sharp punishment to remind him of the rules, nothing more. Holmes is new here, and we must treat our young and tender lambs with the care they require." His smile grew sickly as his gaze slid across to me. "You need time for reflection, young man. We never value most that which is always with us, therefore I'm going to deprive you of the things you take for granted. Put him in solitary confinement, Mr Webb."

"Not the dark cell, sir?"

"No. His tenure is to last longer than a day."

Webb had grinned. "How long?"

"I haven't decided yet. If he has an aversion to his fellow inmates, then alone he shall be. Restrict his diet to bread and water, and give him no books or work. No exercise either. The twin evils of solitude and boredom, Holmes. What do you say to that?"

I had said nothing. Saying what I felt would have only made matters worse. However I had responded I would have been condemned. Even my silence was taken for insolence and Merridew had indicated with impatience that my punishment should begin without delay. Solitary confinement had meant a return to the bed of three planks, the lidded bucket and an empty shelf after the books had been removed. After the warder had gone and the door had locked me within a space six foot by six foot, I had laid on my back with the smooth wood pressing into my spine, stared up at the whitewashed ceiling and tried not to think of what lay ahead.

It was not the thought of being alone that terrified me; rather, it was the interminable hours of ennui. I had read reports of men driven insane after a month of such confinement. Even if Merridew released me after a week, I still faced the prospect of another three months in Postern before I would be allowed to send a letter to alert someone of my plight. The obvious choice was my brother. A letter to someone, for instance, like Inspector Lestrade, would never reach the recipient, given that all correspondence was intercepted and read by the prison warders. It was easy now to baulk at the thought of having to turn to Mycroft for help, but I wondered if I would be quite so proud after ninety days had elapsed.

I tried to console myself with the thought that another chance at escape might present itself. As unlikely as that now seemed, Gregson might recover. It was all conjecture, of course, as much as trusting that an appeal to Mycroft's better nature would not fall on deaf ears. He would be well within his rights to throw my letter onto the fire unread. It was I, after all, who had chosen to sever our ties, not him.

Conversely, if he did respond, it would be on his own terms. It would mean an end to my career and the death of my ambition. I would have to exchange Postern's cells for Whitehall's chains and bear daily witness to the slow, lingering demise of my intellect in a dingy government office, shuffling papers, and living my brother's half-life of wandering between one armchair and another.

There was a third, equally daunting option. I could take Jones's advice and serve my sentence. For eighteen months, I would have to relinquish my identity and give myself over wholly to my infernal creation. The best conjurers, it is said, live their roles. They stoop so that they may appear to grow when they stand tall on stage. They walk with canes so that the audience may believe they cannot possibly run fast enough to appear in one place and then another without the aid of magic. One was said to have even kept a wound open in his arm in which to secrete the tricks of his trade.

It occurred to me, some time between a supper of water-softened bread that hurt my mouth to eat and the extinguishing of the lamps, that if I were to survive in Postern or escape the fate my brother would impose upon me, then Henry Holmes would have to be my open wound. The question was whether Sherlock could return to life when the eighteen months were up. Like those famed conjurers, I could face having to live a role for the rest of my life.

On the one hand, Mycroft. On the other, reinvention. It was a disheartening choice. Either way, I risked the death of self.

Merridew had given me time to make my decision. As red bruises bloomed across my back and stomach and my mouth continued to bleed, it was unthinkable that any sane man would chose to stay within these walls. The logical thing to do would be to accept my brother's terms.

But even a man addicted to ratiocination may hope for a change in fortunes. Had I had nothing but despair in those dark hours, I could have made my choice without hesitation. As it was, like Micawber, I found myself trusting that something was bound to turn up.

Equally, a case becomes infinitely more stimulating when nothing turns in your favour. I was bruised, but not defeated. Certainly I had erred in taking up Gregson's challenge, but to believe this was the end was unacceptable. After all, I was not one of Dante's damned – I had not abandoned all hope on Postern's threshold.

It was tempting to think otherwise as I spat another mouthful of blood-dappled saliva into the basin. The outside world knew this day as a Tuesday and, had I been with them, I should have known it as the day after my birthday. Some might say this was a strange way to enter one's twenty-fifth year. I have ever held, however, that normality is for the masses; the men who make their mark do so because they do not follow the common path.

If my own path was decidedly uncommon, it was also going nowhere fast. Only the second day of my confinement and already I was struggling. It was made infinitely worse by the knowledge that another day of tedium lay ahead of me, in which I could do little more than lick my wounds and curse my own folly in having failed.

For this reason, I was intrigued when mid-morning I heard keys rattling outside my cell and the sound of the bolts being thrown back. Since all communication had thus far taken place through the hatch at the bottom of the door, it was gladdening to see another human being after a day of disembodied voices. More welcome was the news that someone wanted to see me. Several people sprang to mind, some more desirable as visitors than others.

I was to be proved wrong on all counts as to the identity of the newcomer when in through the open door came the slight, familiar figure of Inspector Lestrade.

I was hard pressed to say which of us was the more surprised by this reunion – he by my appearance or me by the fact of seeing him at all. His gaze passed over me quickly enough to suggest disinterest, although not before I had noticed the slight tensing of the lines around his eyes, and his manner thereafter was one of exaggerated indifference, which I took to be for the benefit of the warder.

"This is the one all right," said he. "Given you trouble, has he?"

"Tried to escape Sunday night," said the warder.

"Yes, that sounds about right. He's a slippery customer is our Mr Holmes."

"You want me to stay?"

Lestrade shook his head. "I can handle him. Better shut the door though. Don't want him making another bid for freedom."

The warder looked dubious. "Any trouble, Inspector, you hammer on that door and I'll have you out of here in no time."

"Don't worry, I will."

"And you," the warder said, waggling a finger in my direction. "Behave. If the governor hears you've been giving this gentleman a hard time, there'll be merry hell to pay."

His warning delivered, he left, locking the door behind him. Lestrade and I stood in silence taking each other's measure as the sound of the warder's footsteps receded into the distance. It had been over nine months since I had seen him last, and he had changed very little. He was perhaps a pound or two lighter, a touch greyer at the temples, and the shadows were fractionally darker beneath his eyes. I was less concerned with his physical appearance, however, than what I perceived to be a change in his attitude.

At our last interview, in his office at Scotland Yard, he had asked for what I could not give. My refusal to tell him the name of the thief who stolen precious gems from the Royal Academy had resulted in angry words and an acrimonious parting. Any understanding we had forged through several successful cases had been left in ruins. Nor had we had any no contact since.

That he was here now spoke of a generosity of spirit and a willingness to lay our differences aside. If so, his closed manner and critical gaze made it very clear that he was not going to make it easy for me.

"Well, Mr Holmes," said he finally. "It's been a while."

"Yes, Inspector, it has."

He looked me up and down. "You look terrible."

"I've had better days," I admitted. "I ran into trouble."

Lestrade snorted. "Ran into a brick wall more like it. Who did this to you?"

"Does it matter?"

"Of course it matters. There are rules about this sort of thing."

I shook my head. "It would be my word against theirs, Inspector. I _was_ trying to escape at the time."

He was not pleased by my answer, but did not argue the point. "As you wish," said he. "I know you well enough by now to know that I'll get nothing out of you if you've made up your mind not to tell me."

He looked around for somewhere to sit and, since the makeshift bucket-stool was not to his liking, opted instead for the bed.

"Are these blankets clean?" he asked, his nose wrinkling in disgust at the sight of the plethora of multicoloured stains on the coarse cloth.

"Not recently, I shouldn't think."

"I'll risk it." He released a long sigh of satisfaction as he peeled off his overcoat and took the weight off his feet. "Well, since I've come all this way, I'll have to ask. Would you mind telling me what you're doing here, Mr Holmes?"

* * *

_**T**__**hat is a long story, Inspector. More to the point, what are YOU doing there? Explanations and revelations coming soon!**_

_**Continued in Chapter Eight!**_


	9. Chapter Eight

_**The Particular Problem of Postern Prison**_

**Chapter Eight**

My store of pride had run low over the last few days, but not enough to warrant embarrassing either of us with my ready capitulation. Lestrade would not expect it and I could not countenance it. We played our usual game of weary exasperation on his side and lofty indifference on mine, careful always to maintain appearances and ever mindful of the past.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you, Inspector," I said in answer to his question.

"Oh, there are a lot of things I'm willing to believe, Mr Holmes," said he, something of a knowing smile warming his eyes. "Although in this instance, I fancy I could make a fair job of telling you."

"Indulge me then."

Lestrade held my gaze for a moment and then looked away. "Gregson's been shot."

"Yes, I know. I saw a report in the paper."

"They let you have newspapers in here? My, things have changed."

"A chance sighting. How is he?"

He gave a grim shake of his head. "Not good. He's not had both eyes open yet at the same time to my knowledge. The bullet entered through the back of his neck and rattled around his ribcage before bouncing off his backbone and exiting through his stomach."

"The shot came from above."

"He was kneeling at the time, so it wouldn't have had to come from any great height."

"No one saw the gunman?"

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "On the contrary, we've got plenty of witnesses. Some said there was an omnibus passing by at the time; others said they saw smoke from an upstairs window. One said he saw a tall man with a black beard and a shifty look in his eye hurrying away from the scene, while another claimed to have seen a short man with a pair of stilts. I've got nine reports of tall fat men in brown overcoats, six of tall thin men with black hats, eight of elderly men who walked with a limp and, if I'm to believe what they say, all of these characters were acting suspiciously! I tell you, Mr Holmes, I've been through the witness statements and they all amount to the same thing – that no one saw anything of value."

"That is often the case, Inspector. Ten people may witness the same incident and yet give ten conflicting reports."

"It's not much help to me, or Gregson come to that." A little of the heat left him and his expression sobered. "I can't pretend I've ever liked the man, but he's one of us. You know things are bad when they come around collecting for the Police Widows' and Orphans' Benevolent Fund." He hesitated. "He's got a wife and three small children, you know."

"No, I didn't know."

"They're saying that if he does pull through, there's a chance he might never walk again. Crippled for life. That's the thanks he gets for doing his duty, just as any of us would have done in the same situation." He shook his head. "When a thing like that happens, it pulls up and makes you think. It could just as easily have been me."

"You consider it a random act of violence?"

"Time will tell. We're all watching our backs, just in case."

"What if he was the target?"

Lestrade eyed me closely. "Now why would you imagine that?"

"Come now, Inspector, it must have occurred to you."

"It did." He extracted a sheet of paper from his pocket and studied it, his expression thoughtful. "It's part of the job, having villains saying they'll get their own back on us for having arrested them and the suchlike. We hear it so often that we learn to take it with a pinch of salt. If I worried about every ne'er-do-well who said he'd be coming after me I'd never sleep at night. All the same, you can never be sure. There's always an exception to the rule."

"Better not to have made the rule in the first place. That way nothing can ever be an exception."

"If so you so, Mr Holmes. In any case, someone had to look through Gregson's files to see what he was working on. Guess who got that job." His smile lacked enthusiasm. "Well, there was nothing particularly of interest, except this."

He held the paper up for my inspection. I gave it a cursory glance. It was the duplicate of a transfer form authorising the removal from Newgate to Postern for one petty thief by the name of Henry Holmes. I was aware that Lestrade was waiting for my reaction; because of that, I kept my expression as neutral as possible.

"That explains how you found me. You made the obvious connection, naturally."

"I recognised the name. It's the same you used when you were working as a valet at the Tankerville Club during that business where the man was killed by a stuffed leopard."

"As I recall, the solution to that particular mystery was somewhat more prosaic."

"And as I recall, you almost got yourself killed. When I look at you now, I wonder if history isn't repeating itself." His voice carried a measure of recrimination. "They told me that you'd called at the Yard. It didn't take a genius to put two and two together that you and Gregson were working on something together. What was it?"

"You don't know? He didn't tell anyone?"

"What, Gregson, share a secret with the rest of us if he thought he could use it to his advantage? I know it's been a while, Mr Holmes, but don't tell me you've forgotten how ambitious the man is. Tight as a clam that one when he wants to be. But I'm not stupid, not by a long chalk. When I saw that name, I knew the two of you were up to something. What I didn't know was why you didn't come to me."

There was accusation in that statement, of a trust once broken, irrevocably so in the Inspector's eyes by what he perceived as my going behind his back to his hated rival. I sank down beside him on the bed, feeling sore and weary to the core, only to wince and start forward as I forgot and allowed my injuries to come into contact with the cold, rough wall. Lestrade eyed me with interest, something of his sense of betrayal in his keen gaze and the expectation of an explanation. That much I did owe him.

"Why? Because time was of the essence and you weren't there, Lestrade. I did ask to speak to you, but I was turned away."

Lestrade gave a grunt of amusement. "Yes, I heard about that too. That's why we have Big Bob Hathaway on the desk – to keep out undesirables."

"He takes his job very seriously," I said, remembering my reception at the Yard and the bruises I had earned from my encounter with the sizable Duty Sergeant Hathaway.

"I wasn't best pleased when he told me he'd thrown you out on the street along with the rest of the rubbish, but you can't blame him, Mr Holmes. Policemen have long memories and after what happened last time… well, let's just say you aren't the most popular person at the Yard at present."

"So I gathered. Had I known you were in Manchester, Inspector, I would have sent word to you there."

"Well, that's fair enough. You weren't to know—" He paused mid-sentence to stare in muted amazement at me. "How the devil did you know I'd been in Manchester?"

"It was not a permanent posting, nor in any sense a demotion. Rather, I should say that you were hired in a private capacity, as is permitted under the 1839 Metropolitan Police Act. You completed your investigation to the client's satisfaction and were handsomely rewarded. When you returned home on Sunday, it was to find that the newest addition to your family was ill. You had an argument with your wife and are still at odds. Oh, yes, and your in-laws are staying. How am I doing so far?"

"Who told you?" he demanded.

"I deduced it. Your overcoat has that stiffness and smell about it peculiar to new garments, which tells me it is less than a week old. The label bears the name of a Manchester maker. Clearly then you have been in that city. In the past you have told me that Mrs Lestrade prefers to remain in London; therefore, your reason in that city was not by way of official police business. A private client then. Your new boots, the leather of which squeaked when you came in, speak of your success in the matter and the monetary reward that followed, for ordinarily a detective's salary does not lend itself to such extravagance."

"Five guineas they cost and worth every penny," said he, inspecting his footwear with evident pride. "A policeman's boots are as important to him as his truncheon. If your feet hurt, you can't walk. And if you can't walk, you can't go chasing after villains."

"As to the rest, there is a stain on your lapel that carries that faint odour associated with babies. Your youngest child has therefore been ill."

"That he was. Brought up his dinner on Sunday night when I was holding him." He glanced down at his coat. "I thought I'd cleaned it all off."

"Your wife did not attend to it because you have quarrelled. I should say it was over the money you had spent on your boots and coat, given how anxious you were to justify your expenditure a moment ago."

He nodded. "She said it would have been better spent on other things, and I dare say she's right. But as I told her, my feet are my trade. I have to have a good pair of boots. Besides, it's not right, a man in my position walking around with his soles patched and letting in water." He glanced across at me to see if I disagreed. "How did you know about the in-laws?"

"There are several short white hairs on your trousers." I took one up and passed it under my nose. "Even at a distance, the smell of ferret is unmistakeable. Your father-in-law is a fancier, so you have told me, although you have no liking for the creatures. Since it cannot belong to you, your father-in-law must be staying with you for a period of time long enough to warrant bringing his ferret with him. It was logical to assume that his wife was there too, no doubt to help out with the children in your absence."

Lestrade laughed in spite of himself. "I had forgotten how quick you were, Mr Holmes. You haven't lost your touch."

"Just my self-respect," I said ruefully.

"Prison will do that to you. I don't like coming here, and I'm only visiting. Just the thought this place gives me the collywobbles. I shan't be sorry when they knock it down." The Inspector's expression had become serious again. "Perhaps if you told me what you said to Gregson to have him put you in here, it might explain matters."

"I had reason to believe that a criminal had evaded justice and was at large in London."

"That doesn't surprise me at all. They all make their way to London sooner or later. Who was this person?" My hesitation caused Lestrade to glance over at me. He had his pencil and open notebook in his hand, poised and at the ready. "I'll need the name this time, Mr Holmes. If what you told Gregson has any bearing on what happened to him—"

"I am positive it does, Inspector. The man you're looking for is Vamberry."

"Vam—" He stopped writing. "Mr Holmes, Vamberry is dead. Haven't you heard? He was hanged here last week."

"I do not believe that he was. Instead, he walked out of this prison with a new identity and returned to London to take his revenge upon the detective responsible for his arrest."

"He walked out? Mr Holmes," said Lestrade, exasperated, "I don't think you know what you're saying. No one escapes from Postern."

"That is what Gregson said. He didn't believe me."

"I'm not sure I do either. What makes you think this man is alive?"

"He was seen by two witnesses in Piccadilly, one a clergyman who saw Vamberry in his cell a few days before the execution, and the other a tailor who sold him a dressing gown."

Lestrade laughed nervously, his humour fading when he saw my expression. "You're serious about this, aren't you? Good heavens. Well, I shall have to have the names of these witnesses for a start. I'll have to speak to them myself."

"Mr Windrush of Windrush and Sons in Jermyn Street should be able to supply you with the details of Vamberry's purchase. He was using the alias of Robinson, by the way."

"And the clergyman?"

"Reverend Endymion... _Holmes_."

Lestrade's reaction to that particular revelation was much as I expected. "I see," said he, breathing heavily through his nose. "Would this Endymion fellow be any relation of yours?"

"A cousin, in fact."

"Oh, _another_ of your cousins. Why am I not surprised?" There was a suspicious gleam in his eyes that had not been there before. "Your family has a habit of getting into trouble. Whatever happened to that other one – Miles, was it?"

From his tone of voice, it was evident that he was aware of Miles's predilection for stealing what he could not own legitimately, namely rare and precious objects. His was the name Lestrade had demanded at our last fateful interview, when my refusal to do so had cost me his co-operation and respect. Had I not been bound by a promise, I would have had no hesitation. Part of the bargain I had struck with my cousin for the return of stolen items in his care was that I would not betray his identity to the police. For keeping my word, Miles had repaid me by sending one item in particular to Scotland Yard with my name attached. Nothing could have turned them against me more effectively.

"Miles went abroad. He's Endymion's elder brother."

"Ah. Probably for the best. Well, if he's out of the country, he's no concern of mine. But," he added meaningfully, "if he ever comes back, it'll be a different story. I did work it out eventually, what his game was."

"Yes, I thought you might."

"After you left, I got to thinking what I would have done in your position. I don't blame you."

"Generous of you, Lestrade. I certainly blame myself."

I could feel his eyes on me, so much so that I was forced to meet his gaze. Finally satisfied that he had my attention, he confided something that I had not expected.

"I came looking for you a few months after our last meeting, you know," said he. "I went round to Montague Street only to find that you'd moved out, and your landlady didn't know where."

This was a revelation to me. For the better part of a year, I had thought Lestrade guilty of harbouring a grudge. Now I was learning that the opposite had been true.

"So naturally I went to see your brother."

"You spoke to Mycroft?"

"Yes," Lestrade mused. "He's not much like you, is he, Mr Holmes? Well, he told me that you'd left London and given up playing at detectives."

"He said that?"

I should not have been so surprised. Mycroft had always delighted in foiling my ambitions and had declared himself hostile to my avowed career from the start. To learn that he had deliberately attempted to sabotage my work cut me to the quick. No wonder cases had been scarce. My meddling brother had tried to starve me into submission.

"Oh, he was quite explicit about it," Lestrade went on, oblivious to my chagrin. "Said you'd seen the error of your ways and found yourself employment in some decent profession up North somewhere. Well, after that, I thought that was an end of it. To be honest, I wondered if I'd been too harsh on you and that was what had driven you away. I hoped our paths might cross again, but I never thought it would be like this. I mean to say, you behind bars? I couldn't see you knuckling down the regime of prison life. What was Gregson playing at?"

"He wanted me to prove that it was possible for a man to escape. He gave me a week. There was ten pounds riding on my success."

"You did it for a wager?"

"Not entirely."

"Do you _have_ ten pounds?"

"What do you think, Inspector?"

"I see." A frown creased the lines of his forehead. "Knowing Gregson, he would have wanted paying, if not in cash, then in kind. He's not the sort to waive a debt of honour."

"He did mention that I might help him out from time to time."

"And score one over me in so doing." He released the long sigh of a man who has seen too much of the world and its doings to ever be surprised. "Well, Mr Holmes, I've known some rum goings-on in my time, but this takes the biscuit. But there, we all make mistakes and I'm not the sort to kick a man when he's down."

"I wouldn't say that it has been a complete waste of time and effort," I said, keen to restore some scrap of my tattered reputation. I had, after all, gained something from the experience quite apart from a loose tooth and an array of interestingly-coloured bruises. "Two nights ago, I tried to escape and failed. I have come to the conclusion that it is _not _possible, not for an ordinary prisoner possessed of moderate intelligence and certainly not for a man under daily supervision as the condemned are."

"Then the witnesses who saw Vamberry were mistaken?"

"No, I believe they saw him. I am certain too it was he who shot Gregson."

"But how—"

"Simple, Inspector. They _let _him walk out of Postern."

Lestrade stared at me, his mouth hanging slightly open and moving up and down wordlessly in the manner of a stranded fish. "They allowed a convicted murderer to walk free? No, it's impossible."

"Improbable, but eminently possible."

"Why? What on earth would induce them to take such a risk?"

"The most obvious inducement of all – money. The risk was minimal. You said yourself that you shy away from coming here. I dare say you aren't alone in that. Postern is comfortably out of the glare of decent society. Out of sight, out of mind, as the saying goes. And yet if ever a place demanded greater scrutiny, it is Postern. There is moral decay here, Lestrade, a creeping rot that results in the death of the inmates and apathy amongst the prison staff. As criminals, the great British public say they deserve no better, but when a doctor will not leave his club to attend to a dying man, do not pretend to me that such callous inhumanity serves the cause of justice."

Lestrade had listened to what I had to say in respectful silence. "I don't make the rules, Mr Holmes," said he. "It's my job to apprehend those who break the law. What happens after that is up to the courts."

"That sort of attitude is what allows men like Governor Merridew to thrive unchallenged."

"Not for much longer you'll be pleased to hear. Postern is to close in six months."

I snorted. "I dare say Merridew shall have a comfortable retirement on the proceeds he has made from the indifference of the masses. If not for my cousin, we should never have stumbled upon this profitable sideline of his."

"You don't know that. Merridew is one thing, but what about the other people who were present at the hanging? There's the doctor, the chaplain, the warders—"

"Paid off, Lestrade. Vamberry was a wealthy man. Money can buy anything these days, even a dead body to take his place. A prisoner called Billy Porter died in the infirmary the night before the execution. His was the corpse that was hanged. They had to go through the formalities to keep the other inmates from becoming suspicious. One reported hearing the drop, so presumably did the others. If anyone asked questions later, they could all testify to that fact."

Lestrade gave a tight shake of his head. "I don't like it. Even if what you say is true, how would we prove it? It'd be no good digging the man up even if I could get an exhumation order. They bury them in quicklime, you see. After a week, we'd never be able to identify him. As for Merridew and the others, they'd never admit to their part in it."

"Then you could start by apprehending Vamberry. It occurs to me that for man with such a grudge, the death of the detective who arrested him may not be sufficient. Have there been any other shootings? In particular, members of the legal profession?"

He blinked up at me. "You think he'll go after the judge in the case?"

"Why not, if he hasn't already done so? As you said, you only apprehend; after that, it's in the hands of the courts."

"Now you come to mention it," said Lestrade, his brow wrinkled in thought, "there was something about a barrister being found dead in his chambers with a bullet hole in his head. Not being my case, I don't know the details but—"

"You don't believe in coincidence?"

"Not much, no. If Vamberry is behind this, he's taking a chance."

"Not really, Inspector. You would have enough trouble trying to find a connection amongst the living without adding the dead to your investigation."

"I'll have to assign officers to anyone who may be on Vamberry's list, but how are we to know where he'll strike next, if he intends to strike at all?"

I rose and eased my aching back, the bruised muscles stiff after too long in the same position. "You might inform the press that Gregson has improved and is expected to make a full recovery. You could also tell them where he is convalescing."

"You want me to use him as bait? You think Vamberry would try to... _finish him off_?"

"He seems to me a man who likes to do things thoroughly. You can tell a great deal about a man who cannot countenance a trip to foreign climes without taking his dressing gown with him. He's not a man who leaves much to chance, clearly. The thought that Gregson might recover after he had gone to such pains to kill him might well flush Vamberry out from whatever hole he is currently hiding in. Failing that," I added, "you might catch Merridew in the act. Morgan hangs on Thursday. He also had considerable resources at his disposal, so I understand."

"They wouldn't try it again, surely?"

"The last hanging? Their last chance to benefit financially from their positions? What do you think?"

Lestrade got to his feet. "I think you'd be more use to us out there than in here. It'll take a day or two. Do you think you can stay out of trouble until then?"

I returned his smile. "I'll do my best, Inspector."

"From the look of you, I'd say you couldn't do any worse. You do know the real reason why Gregson agreed to your being put in this hell-hole, don't you?"

"To teach me a lesson."

Lestrade nodded grimly. "He knew you'd never escape. He would have held this over you the rest of your days. He was like that." He cleared his throat. "That is to say, he _is _like that. If he does make it back to the Yard, I'll have a few words to say to him."

He held out his hand. "Good to see you again, Mr Holmes," said he. "I should have known you'd never give up, despite what your brother said. Once the instinct is in your blood, it never leaves you—my, but that's good timing. They must have read my mind."

We had both heard the sound of hurried approaching footsteps, the rattle of keys and a bolt being pulled back. Our interview was about to be brought to an end, but we had had time enough to make our peace. Lestrade was leaving armed with all I had been able to learn and I was gladdened with the prospect of release. My hope had not been misplaced.

This optimism was to be proved premature, however, for as we made our farewells, the door was thrown open and through it was thrust the warder we had seen earlier. Behind him, a broken medicine bottle in his hand came Regan, bull-like in his fury. Before either of us could react, he had relinquished one hostage for another. He fastened his arm about Lestrade's neck and with his other hand had pressed the glistening glass against his victim's straining throat, causing a bubble of blood to erupt from the pierced skin.

"Don't you move!" Regan hissed, glaring at me. "Anyone tries anything, he'll get it, do you understand? Now you." He gestured to the warder. "You go tell Merridew that I've got myself a detective here and I'll slit his throat if he don't do what I say. Go, go and tell him that I want out of this place. If I don't get what I want, he'll have a dead inspector on his hands!"

* * *

_**It**__**'s getting hard to say who is the worst villain of the piece - Vamberry, Merridew, Webb... or Mycroft. Or is there more to this story than meets the eye? But, dear oh dear, just when they thought they had it all worked out along comes another problem!**_

_**Continued in Chapter Nine!**_


	10. Chapter Nine

_**The Particular Problem of Postern Prison**_

**Chapter Nine**

"Well, go!" Regan shouted as the warder hesitated. "Tell Merridew to clear the way for me. I don't want to see anyone between here and the prison door or it'll be the worse for Mr Lestrade here!"

The man swallowed hard, sweat beading on his brow. Whatever he was about to say I doubted would be very compelling.

"Come on now, Regan," he stuttered. "Let the Inspector go and we'll talk about it."

"I'm done talking!" Regan roared, tightening his grip on his hapless victim.

I tried not to wince as the jagged glass of the bottle scythed the air before the grazed skin of Lestrade's throat.

"Get out!" he yelled as the man again wavered. "Leave me those keys of yours too unless you want a dead copper on your hands."

After what seemed an interminably long time as the warder fumbled with his belt, finally dropping the keys on the bed and scuttling away, we were left to make the most of a bad situation. We were three trapped in tiny cell, Lestrade held firmly by a determined criminal, who had been thwarted once before and flogged until his back had bled for trying to escape, now turned to more desperate measures, and me, yet to learn what my role was to be in this drama.

I suspected Regan was equally unsure. I was the unknown element, something not considered in the haphazard planning of the enterprise and now left in an anomalous position. To an extent, I could envy Regan this impulsiveness and reckless optimism. In his position, I would have had to consider every possible outcome and finally talked myself out of the attempt on the grounds of certain failure. Regan, however, had seen an opportunity and had seized it with little thought for how he was to carry it through to completion. Unfortunately for us, his timing was appalling.

If my strength lay in actions, then Lestrade had recognised that his lay in words. He had made no struggle against his captor; to be fair, there was little else he could do in his own defence against a man who stood a good head taller and had a broken bottle pressed against his jugular.

"Regan?" said he with difficulty. "Big Bob Regan? I thought I recognised that voice."

"Aye, it is. You arrested me for burglary six months back. I got sent down for two years."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"I ain't denying it I was guilty. I've nothing against you personally, Mr Lestrade, but when I overheard 'em saying that there was a policeman come to question Holmes here, I didn't hang about to find out who it was. I said I was ill and wanted to see the Doc. No sooner had they left me in the infirmary than I had upped with a bottle and told the warder I wanted to see you."

"Well, you've got my attention," said Lestrade. "Now what's this all about, Regan?""

"It's them," he hissed between his teeth. "It's what they've made me do. I ain't ever harmed another soul in my life, you know that, Inspector, but I have to get out of here and get home. It's my girl, see. I had a letter from the missus, saying as how my little 'un had fallen ill and wasn't long for this world. I told Merridew, but he only laughed in my face. He said there was rules. He said he wouldn't let me see her."

"There _are_ rules, Regan. He wasn't lying to you."

"Devil take the rules! She's my little girl, my baby. You've got children, Mr Lestrade. You know what it's like. You'd go through hell or high water for any of them, right? That's what I told Merridew. I says to him that I'd serve my time over again if only he'd let me see her just the once. But him, he's got no heart. It's not right, keeping a man from his child. That's all I asked, Mr Lestrade, just the one visit. And he turned me down! Well, now, he'll have to listen."

Intent on his purpose, he started to drag Lestrade backwards towards the still open door. I took a step in their direction, stopping when I saw the look in Lestrade's eye. He was not without pluck, but this silent plea to do nothing to provoke Regan seemed to me foolhardy in the extreme. I had to trust he knew what he was doing.

"Regan, listen to me," he persisted. "Merridew won't negotiate with you while you're threatening me like this. Let me go and I'll speak to Merridew about your daughter."

"You've a reputation for being a fair copper and I've no complaint against you, but that Merridew is the very devil! Look what he's driven me to. In all my years of thieving, I ain't ever so much as kicked a dog."

"Then why start now? It's not too late."

"It'll be too late for my Emily if I don't get to her soon. Just you come along with me, Mr Lestrade, and don't make a fuss, and I see you don't come to no harm."

There would be no reasoning with him. Where his child was concerned, nothing would be permitted to stand in his way. I had visions of the tragedy to come. Merridew would never let him leave and Regan could not countenance surrender. Caught in the middle of two opposing sides, there was a good chance Lestrade might not survive. If that happened, I would have his death on my conscience for a long time. He had come to Postern because of me, and now I owed to it him to see that he left again, and alive.

To do so meant stepping back into Henry Holmes's despicable skin. I cursed Regan for that. Just when I thought my sanity had been saved, I was being forced into hiding once again. Under the circumstances, it was a small price to pay for a man's life and my eventual liberation. Then I could be done with Henry for good, or at least until the next time his identity was demanded. Resignedly, I set myself aside and conquered up the memory of my slovenly, dejected and defeated other self. What did concern me was that each time it was becoming easier to assume his loathsome mantle.

"Regan," I called as he began to back away again towards the open door, dragging his hapless victim with him. "Let me come with you. I can help."

"I don't need no help from the likes of you," he growled.

"You can't do this alone."

"Says who? You?" He snorted with disdain. "You didn't get so far yourself. They're saying that Mosteyn Jones told the turnkeys about what you were planning. You shouldn't have trusted that lowlife little sod."

"I didn't."

I took a step forward. Regan's features tensed. I stopped, seeing his fingers grow white as they clenched the neck of the bottle.

"I'm not asking for any favours," I said, "but it seems to me we can help each other out. You want to get home to your little girl. Well, I've got sweetheart waiting for me, and there's this bloke just waiting for his chance to get his foot over the door with me out of the way."

"I couldn't care a less about your fancy woman, Holmes."

"And she won't care a less about me if I don't get out of here soon."

I hoped I sounded convincing. As lies went, it was a poor one, but it was better than admitting the truth, and better still than entrusting to Merridew's tender mercies to see Lestrade extricated unharmed from Regan's grasp.

"Come on, Regan. I'm not asking you to take me with you. It's every man for himself once we're outside the gates. But you've got to get there first."

I took another step towards him. This time, Regan did not move.

"You know they're not going to make it easy for you. Last time you tried it, I heard they were waiting for you. Overwhelming numbers, I heard."

"They wouldn't try that again, not now I've got me a hostage."

"They'll find a way. There are keys to find and doors to open. You'll have your hands full with the Inspector here."

Regan surveyed me with suspicious eyes. "Why should I trust you? For all I know, you could be working for him," he said, jerking his weaponed hand dangerously close to Lestrade's neck. "Wouldn't be the first time. What are you in for?"

"I'm a thief, like you. Ask the Inspector if you don't believe me. He'll tell you."

"Is that right?"

Lestrade need no convincing to play along with this deception and promptly came up with a more original line than I had managed.

"Stealing from old widows, that's Holmes's speciality," said he. "That's why I'm here. I wanted information about his friends who've been working out of Oxford Street."

"He ain't nothing like me then," said Regan. "I ain't ever taken anything from anyone who couldn't afford it. I thieve because I have to, not because I want to."

"Same here," I said brashly.

Regan curled his lip. "When's the last time you had to listen to your baby crying her heart out because she's hungry and you've nothing to give her, eh? Or had the tallyman hammering at your door because the rent was due and it's either the street or the workhouse if you can't pay?" He glared at me. "You disgust me. Your sort are the lowest of the low. I don't need help from no one, least of all you."

"Think what you like, but you'll never see your little girl without me. Merridew will have you flogged and back in the dark cell before you've got halfway to the outer courtyard."

"I'll kill the Inspector here if he does."

"Then you'll swing for it. How's that going to help your Emily?"

For what felt like an eternity, I saw Regan struggle with his decision. Then, finally, my arguments won him over and he relented. "I'm not taking you with me once we're out."

"I'm not asking you to."

"I don't trust you none either."

"If I was going to try anything, don't you think I'd have done it by now?" I nodded to Lestrade. "You might think him fair, Regan, but he's nothing to me. I just want out of here."

"You might be telling the truth, Holmes, I don't know. I dare say Webb wouldn't have roughed you up like that if you'd been working for Mr Lestrade here. There's only one thing I know and what I live by: you don't trust no one."

"I found that out for myself."

Regan grunted. "Well, if you're coming, pick up them keys and walk in front of me. I wouldn't trust you at my back."

Unlike the warder, I did not hesitate. I was out of the cell and leading the way down the corridor towards the first locked door before Regan could change his mind. If I stopped to rationalise it, what we were doing equated to nothing short of madness. That is was borne of a want of compassion for a grieving father did not help matters. Lestrade had been right about there being rules, but it was Merridew's decision ultimately about how he enforced them. Regan had gone to him in the depths of despair. He had not offered sympathy, but had laughed in his face.

I was not hopeful of a change in Merridew's attitude because a man's life was threatened, not even that of a Scotland Yard detective. At every turn, I expected to find a line of warders waiting for us. When I found another empty passageway, I could breathe a sigh of relief. We had time, I kept telling myself. With every opened door and corridor that led us nearer to freedom, Regan was allowing his guard to drop. As long as we were not intercepted, somewhere along the way, his concentration must falter, his hand would slip from Lestrade's neck and this insanity would be at an end.

It had to happen, however, before our run of apparent good fortune came to an end. Trusting no one was a lesson Regan had taken to heart. Not once did he allow me to pass behind him or trust me enough not to watch my every move. I was herded along in front of him, as much a prisoner of his whim as Lestrade. I fancied myself resourceful, but even I lost heart at the sight that presented itself around the last corner.

The double door, solid oak and strengthened with metal fittings, was all that stood between us and our final obstacle. Beyond was the main courtyard, bounded on all four sides by twenty foot walls topped with spikes, where nearly a week before I had been unloaded along with Postern's newest inmates, fancying that I knew better than my companions and that I would be free again in a matter of days. I had learned my lesson since then, and had a loose, bleeding tooth and the bruises to show for my arrogance.

"Well, go on," urged Regan. "Open it. What are you waiting for?"

To have sacrificed a tooth and my self-respect only to come away from the experience confirmed in my misplaced pride and ignorance was stupidity of the worst variety. I was certain I knew what lay beyond that door and it was not freedom.

"I can't," I said, turning to face him. "It's a trap."

Regan's face twisted into a scowl of frustrated frenzy. "I knew you were up to something. You're trying to stop me!"

"I'm not, but they are. That warder should have told Merridew by now. Why hasn't the alarm bell sounded?"

"I don't care. Give me them keys. I'll open it myself!"

I stepped back, taking the keys out of his reach. "They're waiting out there for you, Regan, don't you understand? It how Merridew works. The other night, when I tried to escape, they let me run until the very last moment."

Regan was staring at me hard, the workings of his mind almost visible in the gleaming hollows of his eyes. "Yes, they did the same to me. I got as far as the outer gates and Webb was there, waiting for me. You're right, Holmes. They'll be out there, I don't doubt it. Except this time I've got the upper hand. They won't do nothing while I've got Mr Lestrade here."

"What if they're armed?"

I threw it in out of desperation. It was a consideration that had occurred to me the nearer we came to our objective. One man trying to escape by his own wits could be dealt with by Webb meting out his own brand of punishment. Threatening violence against a hostage was another matter. And if I was right about what had happened at Vamberry's 'hanging', then they would need a body for Morgan's execution in two day's time.

I did not expect it to stop Regan, but it did at least give him pause for thought.

"They wouldn't dare," he said, although his voice suggested that he was not entirely convinced.

"If you set foot outside that door and they see you threatening me, they will shoot you, Regan," Lestrade said. "Don't be a fool. Give yourself up."

It was an unhappy choice of words. Rather than encouraging the doubt I had planted, nothing could have strengthened Regan's resolve more than questioning his intelligence. His grip suddenly tightened and I thought for one moment that Lestrade's last hour had come as the broken glass was pressed hard against his neck.

"Then they'd better get me with the first shot, hadn't they?" Regan hissed in his ear. "Or it'll be the worse for you, Inspector. Open that door, Holmes, or stand aside. Come with me or not, I don't care."

"What about your little girl?" I said. "If you get yourself shot, you'll never see her alive again."

"Then I'll be with her sooner than I thought."

"What if she's recovering? You want to live to see that, don't you? Think, man! You've been here longer than I have. Is there another way out?"

Something I said finally hit home. I saw his determination for a death or glory charge into the unknown replaced by something approaching hope.

"Hanged Man's Gully," said he. "It's the way they use when they take the dead out for burial. They always take them out the back way, so the other prisoners don't see them."

"Better." I chanced a fleeting glance at Lestrade and saw the relief in his expression. Evidently I had not been wrong in anticipating Merridew's course of action. "That's the way we'll go. They won't be expecting us to do that."

As before, I had to lead the way. I knew the first part of our route from the day when I had been brought before Dr Martin for my initial medical examination. It seemed like a long time ago. The thought passed through my mind that I was in worst physical condition now than I had been when the doctor had conducted his token assessment and pronounced me fit for work. What was left of my mind after hours of close confinement in darkened rooms barely large enough for a grown man to stretch his arms and the interminable tedium of the treadmill was another matter.

It appalled me to think how little it had taken to make me buckle. The threat of ennui to a man with an active brain produces that same sense of perturbation as in a man of ordinary courage when presented with the rack or other instruments of torture. Webb's torments had been as nothing – wounds heal, after all – but the damage produced by stagnation on a mind that continues to fret and grind with no material or oil between its cogs may be both destructive and permanent.

Even this, as insane as Regan's wild notion of escape might have been, was welcome relief. I could regret that Lestrade had been involved, but I was not sorry for the challenge it presented. I was even starting to believe that we might actually make it.

That hope was dashed when behind us we heard the sound of a heavy door crashing against a wall as it was opened, then followed by the dull thunder of running feet. They had grown tired of waiting and were coming to intercept us. Perhaps they had even deduced the reason for our delayed appearance.

Whatever the cause, the imminent prospect of capture made Regan panic. Knowing we would be unable to outrun our pursuers, he cast about for another means of escape. Behind us was the door to doctor's examination room. Regan did not wait for me, but hit the door with his back, forcing it open and dragging Lestrade with him inside. I was a second behind him in following. As I closed the door and threw the bolt across, I heard the footsteps grow louder and come to a halt, before a muffled curse was thrown at the locked door in a voice that sounded like of Prison Warder Webb.

He could wait, as would we, now that we had effectively trapped ourselves in a room with no way out. Nor were we alone. A prisoner stripped of his shirt stood before the desk behind which sat Dr Martin, a look of outrage slowly coalescing on his features.

"What the devil—" he began, rising from his chair and finding his voice. "How dare you enter while I'm with a prisoner. What's the meaning of this, Regan?"

"Sit down and shut up!" Regan bellowed.

To give Martin his credit, he was not easily cowed. One can afford a show of bravery, however, when it is not one's own throat being threatened with a broken bottle.

"I most certainly will not," said he. "Have you lost your mind, Regan? Release that man this instant!"

"He's my prisoner now. And so are you, Dr Martin."

His brows rose. "Am I? How are you going to stop me walking out of that door?"

"Holmes will stop you," said Regan, jerking his head in my direction.

"I should have known," said Martin, regarding me with his usual measure of practiced contempt. "Scum always rises to the surface."

"You're going to stay here with us till Merridew gives me what I want," said Regan. He nodded to the other man. "You too, Tippet."

I had spent enough time with the other prisoners to recognise their faces, if not yet to be familiar with their names. Arthur Tippet was a whey-faced, thin weasel of a man in his forties, brow-beaten into submission long ago by the warders, the other prisoners and life in general. All I knew about him was that he was due for release, which accounted for his presence in the examination room. This was to have been his final inspection – except that now Regan had intervened, that longed-for release seemed to have suddenly become an uncertain prospect.

"Regan, be reasonable," he stammered as he pulled on his shirt. "I'm getting out of here tomorrow."

"I won't stand in your way if Merridew shows the same consideration for me."

"What if he doesn't?"

"Then we'll both be staying here a lot longer, won't we?" He nodded to the door that led into the room where new prisoners were searched before their examinations. "See who's in there, Holmes. We don't want any surprises."

I expected to find the latest intake of prisoners to Postern awaiting their turn before Dr Martin and was not disappointed. Two men, one short and stocky with a square jaw and a broken nose, the other smaller and wirier by comparison with a shock of red-gold hair and a face ravaged by ancient pockmarks, were on their feet, stirred into action by the sudden hammering on the outer door, which the attendant warder was in the process of opening. What I did not expect was to find Mosteyn Jones amongst their number, sitting hunched in the furthest corner, a look of utter fear on his face.

It took the new men less time to register the situation than it did for me to explain it. The warder gave them no trouble and meekly came along to join us in Dr Martin's consulting room. Jones trailed behind, looking uneasy and not daring to meet my eyes. Considering what his treachery had cost me, he had every reason to fear my reaction, especially under these circumstances. He was the least of my concerns, however.

In exchanging words with Dr Martin, Regan had taken his eye from Tippet. He had made it across the room and was busy sliding back the bolt before my call brought Regan back to his senses.

"I'm being released tomorrow," Tippet whined. "I can't stay here, Regan. I can't get involved in this. I want to go home. It's not my problem."

His hand closed on the doorknob. A crack of light appeared between the door and the battered wooden frame. I started towards him, calling out a warning, but it was too late. The bullet smacked into his back, throwing him forward into the room. I managed to get the door shut again as another bullet punched a hole in the wood and whistled past my ear, hitting the staggering man again. It spun him round, spraying his blood against the wall before he collapsed into my arms, where he lay, convulsed in his death throes. The ragged hole that had opened up in the front of his shirt was surrounded by a widening corona of red and clots were choking his efforts to speak. He stared up at me imploringly, his bloodied mouth gaping wide and eyes bulging, but I could do nothing to help him save to hold him until that moment when the last breath escaped his lungs and he died quietly in my arms.

* * *

_**Continued in Chapter Ten!**_


	11. Chapter Ten

_**The Particular Problem of Postern Prison**_

**Chapter Ten**

"This really is intolerable."

Dr Martin was aggrieved, with good reason. We had interrupted his surgery, caused the death – in his eyes at least – of one of his patients and then had had the temerity to bind him hand and foot. He had cause for complaint, but he would have been better advised to keep it to himself. None of us were in the mood to bandy words him, and the atmosphere was fraught.

There were eight of us, including the egregious Dr Martin, along with his fellow hostages, Inspector Lestrade and Prison Warder Formby. The ninth member of this unhappy gathering lay in the farthermost corner of the room beneath a sheet stained with the irregular marks left by his blood, now drying to various shades of rust. The hills and valleys of the covering loosely defined the shape of a man, the late Arthur Tippet. He had died as he had lived, easing into eternity without ceremony or leaving many to mourn him.

Yet I had cause to remember. I still had his blood on my sleeves and the memory of his weight in my arms. Holding a man at that moment when his life departs is a strange experience. This mass of bone and muscle and blood and sinew of which we are all so proud is as susceptible to decay and fault as many of our modern day machines. A cog breaks, a piston seizes, the oil runs away, and we die.

We are as fragile as a butterfly – and just as easily destroyed.

It had taken two bullets to end Arthur Tippet's meagre life. There would be more, one at least for each of us should we follow his example and dare to step outside this safe haven. After the shock of the death, we had piled the furniture against the door and barricaded ourselves in. Merridew had staked his position, and we ours. Stalemate, as far as Regan was concerned, a situation that our new companions were eager to change.

Pepper and Reeks by name, thugs for hire by profession, they had been transferred to Postern after an outbreak of gaol fever at their last prison had seen twelve other inmates perish. The healthy had been moved out, while the ill and any who had associated with them had been left behind, either to live or die as they chose. Two centuries before, the fear of plague had caused people to act much the same: the infected confined to their houses, the door barred and painted with a red cross, and then the wait to see who, if any, emerged after the period of quarantine was over. Things had not changed much. _Plus ça change, plus c'est la meme chose_, as the saying goes_._

My initial concern that they might be harbouring infection and had been passed as fit by a doctor as disinterested as Dr Martin was somewhat dispelled by their apparent zeal for the task in hand. They appeared hale and hearty enough, rather too much for my liking, for they exuded a feral menace that made me uneasy. These were men hardened to the ways of prison life and ready to support any cause that might further their interests. Despite being newcomers to Postern, they were working hard to consolidate their position, especially so Pepper, the smaller of the two and very much the leader.

As a result, I found myself losing ground in the battle for Regan's trust. I was the sole source of reason amidst a boiling ferment of impotent rage. Mosteyn Jones was no help; he had found himself a corner out of everyone's way and had stayed there, not daring to look in my direction. I, like the doctor, had good cause to be aggrieved, considering the beating he had cost me. Without his support, he would cost me a great deal more. If Regan turned from me and took the course Pepper and Reeks were suggesting, none of us would leave this room alive.

Not that any of this appeared to have occurred to Dr Martin. He apparently considered his best course of action lay in airing his grievances and emphasising the hopelessness of the situation – remarks which were tantamount to provocation. And it was only a matter of time before they hit their mark.

"This has nothing to do with me," said he peremptorily. "I demand that you let me go this instant."

"You're in no position to be demanding anything, Doc," Pepper retorted. "You've heard what Regan here wants. As soon as he gets it, then we'll let you go."

"I can't wait that long. I have an appointment at my club at five."

Pepper chuckled nastily. "Looks like you'll be missing it. Unless of course the Governor decides to be reasonable before then."

"Mr Merridew won't negotiate with you," said the doctor, with an air of misplaced confidence. "I don't know why you don't give yourselves up now and put an end to this nonsense. You're wasting everybody's time."

"We've got nowhere particular we have to be, do we, Reeks?" The pair exchanged glances and laughed. "I don't mind wasting time in a good cause."

"Good cause," Martin sneered. "It's always the same with you people, an excuse for everything, always trying to get out of paying your dues to society. If you're not ill, you're pleading family troubles. I don't believe a word of it about your daughter, Regan. I think—"

"And I think you've said enough," Lestrade interrupted him.

Martin looked at him down the length of his nose. "You don't seriously agree with what these miscreants are doing?"

"Not with their methods, no. As far as Regan is concerned, it seems to me that a little compassion on Governor Merridew's part wouldn't go amiss."

"This is a prison, Mr Lestrade, not a Sunday school. We can't allow prisoners to take outings whenever they feel like it. Good heavens, if you are representative of your profession, then no wonder the country is sliding into a state of anarchy." His gaze switched to Regan. "This has gone quite far enough. Release me now."

"No one's going anywhere until I get to see my daughter," he grunted, wiping the back of his free hand across his glistening brow. "That's all I want. To see my little girl."

The room was chill and unheated, yet Regan was presenting a ready sweat and a hectic flush on his cheeks. He was tired, certainly. The need to stay alert to fend off Pepper and Reeks relentless verbal attacks were exhausting for me too. But there was something about his manner, as though the effort of the past few hours had drained his energy, and a sallow colour about his skin and a stiffness to his movements that made me wonder if he had been telling the truth when he had told the warders he was ill in order to be taken to the infirmary.

If Regan was ailing, whatever the cause, then it was only a matter of time before that formidable strength of his failed him. When that happened, I was not entirely confident of my ability to defeat Pepper and Reeks in claiming the weapon and bringing this uneasy charade to an end. Pepper wanted violence; indeed, I sensed that he thrived on the very thought of it. To what end, I could not perceive. In harming or killing the hostages, he would in effect be signing all our death warrants. Yet he seemed too sly and cunning to throw his life away in a vainglorious gesture for another man's cause, however just.

Pepper had a purpose in mind, and I was at a loss as to what it was.

What I did know was that he presented a threat. He was a powder keg waiting for a spark before unleashing hell. My concern was that Dr Martin was happy to provide it for him.

"For heaven's sake," he railed, "you must see that Merridew will never agree to your demands."

"He will," said Regan, his voice still edged with steely intent, if a little less firm that it had been before.

"If you believe that, then you're a fool."

Insulting a man who held the only weapon in the room was not perhaps advisable. With Regan slow to react, it fell to Pepper, who leapt upon the chance and hurried to his defence.

"Fool is he, Doc? Then how comes he's the one with the bottle and you're sitting there trussed up like the Christmas goose waiting for the butcher to wring your neck."

To give him credit, Martin was not without pluck. He looked his wiry adversary up and down with an ill-disguised disdain.

"Don't threaten me," said he. "You wouldn't dare lay a finger on me."

"Oh, wouldn't I?" Pepper brought his face close to Martin's and stared him straight in the eye. "You know what me and Reeks got sent down for? There was this fella what owed money, see, and when it came time to pay it back, he didn't want to. So what we had to do was to persuade him, and when he still wouldn't see sense, well, we had no choice, did we?"

"I can't say I'm surprised."

"No, but he was. He thought he was only in for a kicking, but we had to teach him a lesson _pour encouragering les others_, as the French say. Let's just say he won't be siring any more children in a hurry." He smiled grimly, revealing twisted teeth set in blackened gums, and straightened the doctor's collar with almost reverential care. "What about you, Doc? You got any plans on becoming a father?"

Martin swallowed hard. "You wouldn't dare."

This time there was less conviction in his voice, and Pepper seized upon it.

"Don't dare me, Doc. There's a host of armed men out there waiting to shoot us down like they did that other poor cove. Tell me, what have any of us got gain by letting you live?"

I believed him, and from Martin's expression, I saw that he did too. Wisely, he said no more, and it fell to Regan to re-impose order.

"That's enough," said he. "We've no need for violence."

Having possession of the only weapon in the room gave him that right. Given half a chance, Pepper and Reeks were ready to rob him of that advantage, like a pair of wolves hunting down a weakening deer. For now, they were content bide their time. That did not stop them from trying to hasten the end.

"See sense, man!" cried Pepper. "You'll not be getting what you want while we're forced to sit in here cooling our heels. Merridew thinks he's got the upper hand. You've got to show him that he's wrong."

"He's right," agreed Reeks. "You'll never get to see that little girl of yours if you don't."

"Now I appreciate that you're a man whom Mother Nature did not bless with what I call an h'aptitude for violence." His sly eyes glinted with an almost pained longing as his gaze fell on the bottle in Regan's hand. "I respect your principles, truly I do. However, you've got to understand that unless you show your hand, Merridew won't do a thing you say. And how's that going to help your little Emily, eh?"

Every mention of his daughter made Regan's resolve weaken all the more. Sensing this, Pepper reached tentatively for the bottle.

"Why don't you let me have that?" said he. "I'll do what needs to be done. Merridew'll be reasonable then."

His fingers were twitching towards it when I intervened. "No, Regan, you can't do it."

Regan cast doubtful eyes in my direction.

"If you kill them," I persisted, "what protection do we have?"

"Who said anything about killing them?" said Pepper, turning to face me with a challenging look. "You do want to help Regan here, don't you, Holmes?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Reeks take a step or two in my direction to take up position at my back.

I held my ground. "Of course I do."

"Good. Then all I'm saying is that we lop a bit off these prisoners of ours. A finger here, an ear there – that'll get Merridew's attention."

"No. I won't be party to barbarity."

"Is that what you call it?" His voice had dropped several notes and his beady eyes held a hard gleam of spite. "You think they gave that any thought when they rearranged that pretty face of yours? Or am I wrong?" His lips twisted into a sneer. "Did the other prisoners think you deserved it? You've got the look of a chirper to me." [1]

"Leave him alone," muttered Regan. "Holmes is all right."

"Do you know that for certain?" said Pepper. "Seems to me he's rather more concerned about what happens to the Doc here and this detective inspector. I wouldn't be surprised if he was working for them turnkeys. You said he had a nice cosy cell all to himself, Regan, and he was allowed visitors. Why him and not you, eh? What has he done to deserve special favours in this jug? Ever asked yourself that?" [2]

If this was a change of tactics, it was a subtle one. Pepper had recognised that I possessed a fragile element of influence over Regan and was working on a means of destroying it. With me, the _de facto_ voice of his conscience gone, his resolution not to harm his prisoners would not last forever. Whatever respect he had for Inspector Lestrade would not survive the combined buffeting of Pepper and Reeks' arguments about his fading chances of seeing his daughter. In order to press their case, I would have to be discredited or removed. Pepper had obviously opted for the former; whether he would move to the latter when the field was his remained to be seen.

On any other day, this transparent ruse of his may have been successful. Regan did not trust lightly, and while to some extent I had earned my position in this tenuous alliance, it helped my cause that there was another scapegoat to hand.

"Holmes is no friend of the turnkeys," said Regan, laughing mirthlessly. "That's what he got through trying to escape, no thanks to Jones here. He nosed on him to get himself moved out of here. I won't trust the treacherous little sod as far as I could throw him."

At the mention of his name, Mosteyn Jones looked up and shrank further into his corner.

"Did he now?" said Pepper, grinning maliciously.

With a new target in his sights, he lost interest in me, and with a nod to his accomplice, they closed in on the unfortunate Jones. From the way Reeks cracked his knuckles and bunched his fists, I gathered that violence was about to take place. Given our past history, I had no particular reason to prevent what was about to happen; Jones must have known that this would be his reward for betraying a fellow inmate and it had been this certainty of reprisals from the other prisoners that had brought about his segregation after the night my bid for freedom had been foiled.

Every instinct told me that to take his side now would be to weaken my own position. Yet before ere the first punch fell, I found myself defending him. Jones may have deserved a beating, but not death. Pepper and Reeks were too eager to mete out their own brand of justice and I doubted they had any intention of stopping when that old requirement of 'a tooth for a tooth' had been met. That nagging intuition of mine reminded me that I was still undecided as to Pepper's motives. The evident relish he took in hauling Jones to his feet and pinioning his arms behind him told me that this was not for my benefit, but for personal reasons, some far less noble.

"Leave him," I spoke up. "I don't blame him for what happened."

"He noses on you and you say you don't blame him?" Pepper chuckled. "That kicking they gave you shake your brains loose or something, Holmes?"

Jones dared to meet my gaze and in that moment I saw there stark fear. This was not simply craven cowardice, it was based on knowledge. He knew; more than that, he was certain of his fate and it terrified him.

Why he should have been confident of his death when he might reasonably have expected a beating perplexed me. I credited him with intelligence, but not enough to have perceived what lay behind Pepper's readiness to act as judge, jury and executioner in his case. If I had been inclined to save him before, it was paramount that I did so know, if only to prise from him what he knew of this pair of thugs.

"Look at his face." I turned Jones' bruised eye and cut lip to work in his favour. "Webb beat it out of him."

"Wouldn't be the first time," Regan grunted. "Doesn't make what he did right."

"Webb can be very persuasive," I said, my hand straying meaningfully to my tender cheekbone. "Especially if you're a snivelling coward like Jones here."

"Well, you're a more forgiving man than me, Holmes. You sure you don't want him roughed up? You'd be well within your rights."

"I'll see to Jones in my own time," I said, meeting Pepper's simmering stare. "Besides, now's not the time or the place. Merridew wants us fighting between ourselves. You never heard of divide and conquer, Pepper?"

Regan nodded. "Holmes is right. Let him go. We might have need of him."

Reluctantly Pepper relinquished his hold on his victim. Jones scuttled out of his grasp and away into the adjoining room. I followed, caught up with him and for the benefit of the curious, grabbed him by his lapels and thumped him up against the wall.

"I'm sorry, Holmes," he gabbled. "I didn't mean to—"

"Yes, you did. That's not what concerns me. Who are they?"

The bulge of his Adam's apple quivered beneath the glistening skin of his throat. "They're called Sticks and Stones."

"As in 'break your bones'."

Jones nodded. "They've here for me."

"Why?"

"You remember I told you about that painting I did, the copy of _'The Fighting Temeraire'_? The man I painted it for, he sent them… _to kill me_!"

* * *

_**As if Mr Holmes didn't have enough to worry about!**_

_**Continued in Chapter Eleven!**_

_**

* * *

**_

[1] Informer. To 'chirp' or to 'nose' were 19th century slang expressions for 'informing'.

[2] 'Jug' – again, a slang expression, meaning 'prison'.


	12. Chapter Eleven

**_The Particular Problem of Postern Prison_**

**Chapter Eleven**

A revelation of pending murder was not the response I had been expecting from Mosteyn Jones. That he had crossed these two thugs in a previous encounter I had could believe; that they should want to kill him in something more than a rhetorical sense was less convincing. Jones was a pathetic, snivelling liar, beneath anyone's contempt, and I could not displace the suspicion from my mind that this was another of his attempts at dissembling to incur my pity and save himself a beating.

Against that, I placed his fear.

I have seen actors put up a convincing impression of that emotion in the face of some lurking dread, perennially aware of the art behind that careful contrivance. Jones, however, stank of terror. It seemed to leech out of his sweaty skin as a repugnant and repellent odour.

That he was genuine in his belief that his life had been threatened was evident; as to the source and the reason, I had yet to be persuaded. Either the man of whom Jones spoke was a criminal genius, able to manipulate the prison system to his own ends, or the presence of Pepper and Reeks' at Postern was an unfortunate coincidence. Neither of those explanations were particularly satisfactory, lest of all the latter. As coincidence, like its bedfellow serendipity, found no place in my philosophy, having eliminated the impossible, what remained had to be the truth.

I would have said that this was the one time that my maxim disappointed me, for believing that anything Jones told me was the truth was beyond the capability of even the most gullible individual, except that I had heard rumour of such a man before. My flawed but brilliant cousin Miles had spoken of someone called 'The Professor' as being the sort of man he should 'not like to cross', which coming from Miles impressed me as to the nature of our foe.

It had awakened an interest that had been frustrated through months of inactivity. Now, if it was the same man, an opportunity presented itself to learn more, albeit from an untrustworthy forger and in the most inopportune of circumstances. Sweet, however, are the uses of adversity as the Bard tells us, and Mosteyn Jones, who, like the toad, ugly and venomous, could yet prove to wear a precious jewel in his head – and no gem would I prize more than the information he could give me about his insidious master.

Accordingly, I released my grip on his lapels and he slithered down to the wall to find his feet.

"I want his name, this man who wants you dead."

Jones stared at me, his face contorted with misery. "You don't know what you're asking. I can't tell you."

"Why?"

"Because of what he'll do if he finds out. What business it is of yours anyway?"

"It became my business when I found myself locked in a room with you and those two thugs out there." Jones cringed at the rising insistence in my voice. "Tell me his name."

"For God's sake, if you have any pity, leave me alone," he wailed. "Let me die and let that be an end of it. Don't make it worse, I beg of you!"

"Worse? They intend to kill you, Jones. How could it be worse?"

"It's what they'll do to me. If they think I've told you anything, they'll make me tell them what I've said." He swallowed hard and fought to suppress a shudder. "I've seen their handiwork before. I'd rather die quickly."

"Anyone can die," I retorted. "It takes courage to live."

"Fine words," said he, laughing nervously. "Between Merridew and Pepper and Reeks, none of us have much chance of leaving this room alive."

"What if we do?"

Again, Jones shook his head. "Don't raise my hopes, Holmes. I can live with the despair, but not hope. What can you do against them? You're just a thief."

"We have the upper hand while Regan remains in control."

"But for how much longer?"

The doubts that had been preying on my mind resurfaced. "What's wrong with him?"

"It's where he was flogged. They say infection has set in. It's why he's so desperate to see his daughter, before the poison in his blood kills him. Didn't you know?"

"It seems to me that there is much I do not know."

Frustratingly, this need for secrecy was too deeply ingrained in him to make pursuing the identity of his master worthwhile. Under different circumstances and with time, I could have broken his resolve. For now, however, I had to try a different approach.

"At least tell me why this man wants you dead."

"What difference would it make now?"

"Because I do not want to die ignorant."

He took a moment to wet his lips. "Well, he thinks I betrayed him."

"That I can believe."

"But I didn't!" he protested. "I wouldn't dare. He expects absolute loyalty."

"I imagine you would find that difficult."

Jones's voice started to tremble as he spoke. "Not where he is concerned. He means what he says. If he even thinks one of his men has crossed him, he has them marked for death. Whether you believe me or not, I am sorry for what they did to you, but I had to do it. You were my way out of here. I couldn't wait another six months. People die in Postern. I didn't want to be one of them."

"You think you'll be any safer at Broadmore?"

"No, but Broadmore has other merits."

"An asylum for the criminally insane? I fail to see what they might be."

Jones managed a cringing smile. "The food is good and the security lax."

I stared at him. This was the man who had said that he was content to serve his sentence and walk from prison with his freedom undisputed.

"I had to tell you something," said he when I put this to him. "I didn't know whether you were friend or foe, and you were asking all those questions. I thought you'd been sent to test me. But it wasn't and you were genuine and… dear Lord, I never thought it would come to this!"

As he buried his face in his hands, I reflected that the transformation from the spry, cocky forger I had first met several days ago into this dejected wretch was startling. Of the three years he had served out of his sentence of five, the last two months had been the most devastating. I was beginning to appreciate Postern's infamous reputation as the breaker of men. I was in the company of two driven to desperate measures, one for the sake of his daughter, the other for fear of his life.

Their cause was not mine. I had, however, been compelled to take an interest by their very actions. I had already been embroiled in violence and death, and now my own life, as well as that of Lestrade's, hung in the balance. Knowledge was indeed a powerful weapon, but all the words in the world would be little use against the murderous ruffians in the adjoining room if Regan should falter and they took the broken bottle from him.

I needed Jones to tell me what he knew and quickly. I pulled his hands from his face, kept a tight grip on his wrists as he tried to wriggle away and made him look at me.

"Why does he think you betrayed him?"

"No," he sobbed. "I can't tell you."

"Jones, according to what you've told me, he wants you dead. You owe him nothing."

He nodded mournfully. "I know. That's why he had me sent here."

"_He_ arranged that you were sent to Postern? How?"

"Don't you understand yet? There's nothing he can't do. He's clever, Holmes, more so than you or me. That's why no one's ever heard of him. It's why he never gets caught, only the people he employs, like me. Not a breath of suspicion has ever touched him. He makes sure of that. Anyone he considers a threat is removed."

"And now you've fallen into that category. Yet you knew about the painting and what he intended to do with it before you were ever arrested. What changed? Why does he now consider you a threat?"

"No, I can't tell you. They'll do terrible things to me." A sound like a panicked cry caught at the back of his throat. I shook him to bring him back to his senses and a moment later he had regained some semblance of control. "Holmes, I'm not a brave man, I admit it," said he finally. "My father was a vicar. I had a good upbringing. I'm not used to dealing with men like this."

"They scare you."

"Don't they scare you?"

"Not know I know their purpose."

"Have you never heard that ignorance is a blessed state?" His half-hearted laughter died in his throat when he saw my expression. "You can't protect me from them."

"We can try. The decision is yours, whether to throw your lot in with me or trust to their tender mercies."

I saw the battle between the two evils played out in his eyes. "Why should I trust you? You have every reason to hate me."

I was beginning to weary of his need for reassurance. If Regan was ailing towards collapse, then time wasted with Jones could be better spent formulating our plan of escape.

"I don't want to die here, even if you do. Furthermore," I added, smiling to intensify the force of the threat that followed, "if you don't tell me, I shall pretend you have to your two friends in there. I can defend myself, but I'm not sure that you can."

He visibly quailed. It was appallingly easy to intimidate him and I took no satisfaction in the humbling of a lesser opponent.

"It seems I have underestimated you," said he. "I thought you were different from the others."

"I am, but in ways you will never understand. What did you do to this man?"

Jones bowed his head in meek submission. "When I was arrested, he said he would see to it that I had an easy time in prison if I pleaded guilty. So I did. But five years is a long time. I was finding it difficult, so I wrote to his agent."

"You threatened him?"

"I might have implied something of the sort." His expression spoke of embarrassment, as if he was ashamed of himself for having taken so bold a step. "The next I knew, I was transferred here. Until you came along, no one would speak to me. They all knew I was marked. I've spent every day waiting for something to happen. The thought of what he had planned for me has near driven me mad. That's why Merridew suggested Broadmore. He said they take prisoners who've become insane whilst undergoing sentence of punishment."

"You seem normal enough to me."

He managed a rueful grin. "Let's say I have other talents besides forgery."

"If what you say is true, why would you believe this former patron of yours would let you leave Postern alive, if he has as much influence as you say?"

"The man they hanged, Vamberry, was in his employ. I reasoned that if he couldn't intervene to save Vamberry, then he couldn't get to me in here. I thought I was safe from him. I reasoned he hoped I'd catch something and die. I can't wait for that to happen. That's why I have to leave."

As simple-minded logic went, it was faulty in the extreme. What Mosteyn Jones had not known was that Vamberry _had_ escaped the gallows to find his way back to London. There he had been first sighted by my cousin and then, according to my theory, had gone on to shoot Gregson. Far from being safe, Jones had been unknowingly in the lion's den all along.

By extension, that meant Merridew had a connection to Jones's unnamed patron. If Broadmore had been at his suggestion, it was for a reason. In writing his letter, questions had been raised about Jones's fidelity. He had been put here to segregate him and to wait for his next move. At the same time, Merridew had filled his head with tales of comfortable beds and the hope of freedom if he was prepared to offer information about his fellow inmates.

Jones had suspected that he was being tested, and he was right. He had erred only in mistaking from what quarter it would come. As Merridew had manipulated him, so he in turn had manipulated me. He had even gone so far as to tell me the best time of day to make my bid for freedom, thereby ensuring that I would be caught in the very act.

In doing so, he had signed his own death warrant. A man who would run the gauntlet of betraying another prisoner was desperate enough to do anything, even to betray his former paymaster. Once this news was relayed to his superiors, the order of execution had been given, and Pepper and Reeks had been sent to carry out the sentence. Rampant infection at their old prison had been a convenient means of bringing them here; even without it, if this man had as much influence as Jones claimed, another pretext could have easily been invented, the way oiled with the liberal application of money.

Nor did it take too much imagination to see how Jones had ended up in the same room as the two men. How his death was to have been achieved eluded me. It was impossible that either the two thugs or Merridew could have known that Regan would take Lestrade hostage or that we would barricade ourselves in so convenient a location.

The only sense I could make of it was that the deed had been planned before ever we arrived on the scene. I thought back to how I had found them: Formby, the prison warder, at the door, Pepper and Reeks on their feet and Jones cowering in the corner. I had evidently interrupted something.

"You only delayed the inevitable," Jones explained in answer to my question. "Tippet and I were awaiting our final medical inspection when they brought in the new prisoners. As soon as I saw them, I knew they had come for me. Tippet was taken out to see the doctor, and then the warder locked us in. Pepper said I was going to get what was coming to me. Then we heard the commotion out in the corridor and you appeared."

It was fortunate for Jones that we had. In so doing, we had saved his life.

"The warder was involved," I mused aloud. "That complicates matters."

Jones nodded. "He found it amusing. He said it would be put down to an accident. Then he said if they needed any help, he'd be only too happy to oblige."

That Pepper and Reeks had an ally was an unexpected touch. Against two, I stood a fair chance, but the odds were stacking against us all the time. I understood why Pepper was keen to urge Regan to violence. Our intervention had caused a change of plan. Before, they had been content to kill Jones, in the certainty that their master would see to it that their actions did not lead them to the gallows. There were too many witnesses for that to be effective now. Anyone not involved in their plans would have to be removed, including Regan, Lestrade and myself. If it could be blamed on Regan at no cost to them, then so much the better.

I was still not sure of the extent of Dr Martin's involvement. He would have been called upon to confirm the nature of Jones's death as the alleged 'accident' and his arrogance suggested an association that guaranteed his safety. Pepper was unpredictable, however. Perhaps he had not been told of the doctor's loyalties or considered him expendable, if so ordered by his master. I did not discount the possibility that his show of intimidation had been for our benefit, for the purposes of deceiving Regan. Pepper was cunning enough. He had been convincing too; even Martin had been shaken by this threats.

What was certain was that I could not allow the situation to continue to its bloody conclusion. I had to bring it to an end, and soon before Regan's health failed and there was a desperate scramble for his impromptu weapon. My thoughts must have told on my face, something I had tried to guard against, unsuccessfully as it transpired when Jones ventured to break the silence with an observation of his own.

"You've got that look again." He was gazing at me with something akin to expectancy slowly replacing the pinched look of fear in his eyes. "What are you planning?"

"A way out of here." He would not like what I had to say. I had my doubts, but in an increasingly worsening situation, it was better than the alternative. "In a moment, I'm going back to the other room. I want you to stay behind. When I'm gone, open the door to the corridor."

Jones's eyes bulged. "My God, are you mad? Merridew will kill us all."

"When you've opened the door," I continued, "join us in the other room. Keep your back against the wall. In so doing, when the warders enter, they won't see you straight away. With any luck, it might stop you getting shot."

"What about you?"

"I shall be offering no resistance. Merridew may baulk at murdering an unarmed prisoner in front of an unbiased witness."

"You mean the inspector? But how do you know he isn't involved?"

"He isn't," I said firmly. "When this is over, tell Lestrade you know about Gregson. That should get his attention. Then tell him all you've told me, and he will see that you are removed from this place. Do you understand?"

"What if he doesn't?"

"He will."

"How can you be so sure?"

"I know Lestrade. He's fair, as long as you're honest with him, Jones. Lie to him and you'll find yourself sharing a cell with Pepper and Reeks before the week is out." Much to my annoyance, Jones appearing to be teetering on the brink of collapse. I gave his face a sharp slap to remind him that now was neither the time nor the place. "Will you do it?"

"Yes," he muttered. "Holmes, even if we don't survive, you have my gratitude for trying."

"You can thank me later by telling me that name," I replied.

I started for the door, pausing only to look back to find that Jones was staring hard at me.

"What I said before, about you being the same as everyone else in here," said he. "I was wrong. You are different. You're like no thief I've ever met before. Who are you?"

As irritating as it was to hear that my disguise had been penetrated by so wretched an individual, there was a certain gratification in knowing that I was no longer at the mercy of my assumed alias. Try as Henry might, Sherlock was still in there, and making his presence felt. There would be a time to tell Jones who I really was, perhaps as a means of breaking his vow of silence, but not yet. My true identity, like that of his elusive master, was too precious a thing to be thrown away as a meaningless gesture on a moment's whim. As Jones had his secrets, so I had mine.

All the same, I could not resist a touch of bravado. If nothing else, I thought that much was owed to me.

"I'm no one," I answered him. "Yet."

* * *

_**Opening the door and allowing Merridew and his armed men in… sounds risky to me. I hope Mr Holmes knows what he's doing!**_

_**Continued in Chapter Twelve!**_


	13. Chapter Twelve

**_The Particular Problem of Postern Prison_**

**Chapter Twelve**

I left Mosteyn Jones, half doubting whether he would have the courage to carry my _beau stratagème_ to completion, if such a term was application to what he had himself described as madness. Any fool could see that there were too many variables to guarantee the success of the venture, which perhaps made me the greatest fool of all for having suggested it.

There was a simplicity to it, however, that had been attractive. One may be at fault in over-planning such things, to the point where the whole business becomes convoluted and apt to falter when the smallest detail goes awry. Given time, I could have found a more satisfactory conclusion, but that was a luxury I did not have. Like Regan before me, I had seized the chance when it had presented itself; unlike him, however, I had hopes other than failure.

My reasoning depended on several theories, supported by and large by the facts as Jones had relayed them. Firstly, it was apparent that all at Postern were involved to some extent in this sordid drama, whether in the shape of the warder who had been happy to stand by and watch as a man to whom by his office he owed care and protection was savagely beaten to death, a governor who turned a blind eye and allowed his uncouth subordinate a free rein to treat the prisoners as he saw fit with the mildest of rebukes to follow, or the mass of the incarcerated, deprived of their freedom and seemingly of their will, in adhering unquestioningly to an order to shun the transgressor among them.

What then should have worked against us, conversely, could be turned to our advantage. Merridew was ever willing to allow others to do his dirty work for him. Whether Jones died as the result of an 'accident' or in the chaos of Regan's bid for freedom, it would have mattered little to him, as long as the deed was done. He must have rejoiced at the location Regan chose to stage his petty act of rebellion. From then on, all he had to do was to corral us. Tippet's death ensured that we gave no thought to leaving. All that was required of him was to wait for Pepper and Reeks to bring the charade to an end. If there were casualties, what were the lives of several rioting prisoners? If Lestrade died in the process, it would be regrettable but better the life of one man than the safety of the multitude if a host of dangerous criminals had been allowed to escape.

With this in mind, I calculated that he would see the open door as an invitation and an expression of success that would not necessitate his sending in his armed men ready to kill all and sundry. What happened next would depend on Inspector Lestrade. As I had told Jones, the presence of a witness not aligned with this league of infamy might stay his hand.

Might, of course, was the apposite tense of the verb, for there was always the chance that one of his men would misread the situation and take matters in his own hands. Merridew would then shake his head at what he would call a 'regrettable incident' and deflect the blame. It was a variable for which I could not prepare. I believed our best chance still lay in action and, while Jones set events in motion, it fell to me to protect our interests in the shape of one bound and disgruntled inspector of police.

When I returned to the room, it was not Pepper and Reeks who preoccupied me, but Regan. He retained his weapon, which was to our immediate advantage. His pale, sweaty skin and rising fever warned that Merridew's intervention would be better coming sooner rather than later. That he was still conscious was a testament to the man's resolve. One reads of people displaying extraordinary strength to free an injured comrade from beneath a fallen beam or lifting downed carts from the trapped bodies of their children, as if the nature of the event bestows upon the interested parties the skills necessary to avert disaster.

I could admire Regan for his determination, but with the same breath I cursed him too. What would be his reaction when faced with the sight of the warders bearing down on him? He would know his last chance to see his daughter had gone. What then would he do? I had a vision of his setting aside the limits he had imposed upon himself, and two families would lose fathers this day.

For his own good, as much as for mine, I had to relieve him of his weapon. It was going to prove a thankless task, to say nothing of the inherent dangers to all concerned.

Such was my thinking on re-entering the room. In my absence, however, I sensed that our foes had not been idle. There had been a subtle shift in the delicate politics of our situation, a suspicion that was confirmed when Lestrade caught my eye for a fleeting moment.

_Trouble_, his look seemed to say. _Watch yourself_.

What that form that trouble might take took little time in presenting itself. "You was gone a long time," said Pepper, in his usual insolent, insinuating manner. "Had a nice talk with your 'friend', did you?"

"He's no friend of mine."

"Strange that. You had more to say to him in there than you did your so-called friends in here." He stopped picking his teeth and glanced over at me. "See, what we think, Regan and me, is that you two are closer than the hind legs of a donkey. We think you was plotting in there with him against us."

"Do you?" I said, addressing my remarks to Regan.

"All I want," said he, in a voice that was growing wearier and more despondent every time he spoke, "is to see my Emily."

"Then do something!" urged Pepper. "Don't just sit there, man! Merridew'll take no notice of you until you show him what you're made of. What are you, a man or a coward?"

Regan gave him a bitter look. "I got this far, didn't I?"

"You'll go no further unless you act. If you haven't the stomach for killing, I'll do it."

He made a grab for the bottle. Regan wrestled it away from him.

"There'll be no killing," he stated.

Pepper retreated, exasperated. Against one ailing man, I had to wonder why the pair did not press their advantage, as I should have done. But if I had gained nothing else in my time in Postern, it was an appreciation for the value of patience. It was not so much a lesson learned as a virtue forced upon me by hours of tedium, close confinement or the endless repetition of profitless, meaningless tasks. Pepper and Reeks had time to waste; bringing a swift end to this charade would only mean a return to the cells for them.

Whatever their protestations and theatrics, they were clearly enjoying this interlude in the dull routines of prison life. They were content to sit back and watch a grieving father slowly die, with the promise of greater violence to follow. I have seen children display fewer signs of excitement with their eyes agog and their noses pressed to a toy shop window. In the course of my long and varied career, I would have dealings with many whose crimes have caused scandal and outrage, but none who ever quite matched this pair for depravity. The depths to which mankind can descend should never be underestimated and, in thinking the worst of people, one is unlikely ever to be surprised.

The difference between us was not simply one of morals. I could not wait. After Jones opened the door, I did not expect Merridew to delay his entrance.

"I agree with Pepper," I spoke up. "We've sat here long enough."

Regan stared up at me as though I had taken leave of my senses. On the other side of the room, from the cut of his brow and the narrowing of those furtive eyes of his, I imagined Pepper was both intrigued and suspicious of my change of heart.

"You were right," I went on. "I _was_ talking to Jones about you, Regan. You won't like what I've got to say."

"Tell me anyway."

"He says you're ill."

Regan shrugged this consideration away.

"He says you won't last much longer."

I had the desired reaction. Regan surged to his feet, away from Lestrade. Once up, he swayed, dizzy through the suddenness of the movement. My offer of support was dashed away vehemently.

I looked past him. "Is he ill, Dr Martin?"

"I wouldn't know," said he disinterestedly. "I haven't had a chance to examine the patient. Why don't you ask Jones? He appears to be the medical expert."

Unfortunately for him, Jones had chosen that moment to sidle back into the room. As I had instructed, he kept his back firmly planted against the party wall. Any hope he had harboured of making his entrance as unobtrusive as possible was dashed as he came to realise that he was the sole object of attention.

"You little sod," said Regan, gesturing at him with the bottle. "Spreading lies about me!"

Jones visibly shrank. "What have I done now?" he whined. "I've said nothing. You have to believe me!"

These last words were intended for Pepper and Reeks, but it was Regan who took them up.

"I'm as fit as any man-jack alive," he said, bearing down on the cringing forger. "I'll have your tongue for saying otherwise."

"You can't go on like this, Regan," I said, checking his advance. In so doing, quite apart from intervening on Jones's behalf, this had the advantage of removing me from the direct line of the door. "Jones only told me so that we could help you."

"The devil he did!"

"Listen to me! If you are as ill as he says, then Merridew has only to wait for you to get worse. If you die, Regan, you'll never see your daughter. Is that what you want?"

"It's a touch of fever, nothing more." As he spoke, I saw the growing indecision in his eyes, an acknowledgement that even he now realised the futility of his stance. "You've got something in mind?"

"I'm suggesting you give this up."

The cold light of fury brought a little life back to his dull eyes. "You're talking rubbish."

"Don't listen to him, Regan," came Pepper's voice from somewhere in the background. A moment later, he had inserted himself between us. "He's a turncoat, a dirty traitor, like his little friend."

Until that moment, Pepper had been content to watch our drama play out without comment. No doubt he had found it amusing, especially when Regan had been goaded into threatening violence against Jones. I expected that he would intervene when I made my suggestion, for surrender without the deed accomplished was not in his interest at all.

"I won't give up, Holmes," said Regan. "I want to see my daughter."

Pepper smiled at me, confident of his victory. "That's right, you tell him."

"You will, but not like this," I said. "End this while you can, Regan. You said you had respect for Lestrade as a decent copper. He'll do what he can for you, won't you, Inspector?"

"You know I will, Regan," said he. "You have my word."

"The word of a copper?" snorted Pepper, increasingly desperate to turn the situation to his advantage. "We know what that's worth, don't we, Reeks? Come on, Regan, give the bottle to me. I'll show you how to deal with these cowards."

Pepper got his wish, although not as Pepper had intended. A sick man, pushed to the limits of his patience, he struck out at the more annoying of his two attendant gadflies. The gesture was meant as a warning and a threat. Pepper, however, acted as his nature dictated. With the broken end of the bottle thrust at him, he saw his chance and grabbed at it. The sudden pull on his weapon threw Regan off-guard, and frantically he tried to regain control. I threw my own weight into the affray and with Reeks bearing down on us we suddenly found ourselves in a fierce battle for dominance.

Regan in his weakened state was soon pushed to the ground, and my own grip was equally tenuous. The glass was slippery with sweat and blood where time and again we sliced our fingers on the broken shards in our attempts to gain a better hold. We danced this merry, bloody jig round and round until Reeks' arm closed about my neck and threatened to throttle the very life out of me. Even with a fringe of darkness encroaching at the edge of my vision, I tried to keep a hand on the bottle, certain that if I faltered, Pepper would waste no time in using it against us all. Then, when I thought I must surely succumb, I heard the sound of a door being thrust open and many booted feet entering at a run in the adjoining room.

The look in Pepper's eye told me that he knew what we had done. He knew too that his time was short. In the seconds before the guards burst into the room, he hit me hard in the face, finally succeeding where the warders had failed in dislodging my already loosened tooth. I lost my grip on the bottle and Reeks and I reeled back, locked in our deathly embrace into the path of the oncoming guards.

The end came quickly. I heard an agonised cry, the sound a man may make when death takes him by surprise, quickly followed by the staccato rattle of several gunshots. Behind me, Reeks let out a groan and went limp. With his full formidable weight borne on my back, there was but one way we could go. I collapsed beneath him, the breath crushed out of me in the process. As painful experiences go, it was not to be recommended, but with hindsight it saved my live.

Whether Merridew had given the order, ultimately it had made little different to the outcome. His men had reacted to what they had seen when they had burst into the room. Faced with brawling prisoners and bound hostages, they had acted to subdue the one and save the other. From my position, I could see fallen bodies. The smell of cordite and newly-split blood was on the air. I could feel it too, dampening my clothes from where it had leaked from the dead man's wounds. The room had taken on the aspect of a slaughterhouse.

Regan, Reeks and Pepper had joined Tippet in death, and for a moment I was deceived by Jones's protracted wailing that he had escape the worst of it. It was only when I managed to catch sight of him, propped up against the same wall where I had seen him last, protected from the bullets as I had told him, but not from Pepper, who in the final seconds before the guards had entered had found his mark, driving the broken end of the bottle into Jones's stomach. That he was able to wail told that he was still alive, and if Dr Martin could be persuaded to make the effort, his life might yet be saved.

As for me, the only person interested in my survival was Lestrade. It was he who, finally freed of his bonds, rolled the dead body from my back and made an anxious, searching appraisal for any injury on my person. I was bloodied, bruised and missing a tooth, but otherwise I had emerged relatively intact. His evident relief was momentary and had passed by the time the guards hauled me to my feet and bound my hands. If I received rough treatment at their hands, it was to be expected. Wisely Lestrade said nothing and left me to endure the occasional blow that fell to my kidneys, saving his ire instead for the impassive and indifferent Governor Merridew.

"What the blazes did you think you were doing?" he raged. "You could have killed us all."

"You have a complaint, Inspector?"

"The devil I do! Was it necessary to shoot these prisoners?"

Merridew offered a wan, patient smile. "They were dangerous men, who had threatened your life. What else were we to do?"

"It wouldn't have got to that stage if you had let Regan see his daughter."

"That would have difficult under the circumstances." The smile broadened into malicious delight at his greater knowledge. "Regan's daughter died the same day he received word."

Lestrade stared at him, evidently appalled at what he was hearing. "And you never told him? What sort of a man are you?"

"A practical one," said Merridew mildly. "My duty is maintain order in the prison. Had Regan known, he would have become turbulent."

"Heaven forbid," said Lestrade sarcastically. "Instead he tries to escape and ends up dead. A better outcome, would you say, Governor?"

"I support my men in their actions. They did what they had to do."

"I heartily agree," said Dr Martin, in a voice that proved his arrogance had survived the ordeal intact. "Regan was a maniac, out of his mind."

"He was no such thing," I objected.

For my impudence, I received a clout to the back of my head that brought me to my knees. With it came a wash of blood from the cavity where a good tooth had once been that passed into my throat and brought on a violent coughing fit as my lungs attempted to rid themselves of the intruder. With little choice but to spit the blood from my mouth, I heard an expression of disgust from several quarters as several people took a step back.

"Take that man out of here," Merridew ordered. "I want him flogged for this!"

"You do and you'll have me to answer to," Lestrade interjected. "Without Holmes here, we would all have had our throats cut."

"Don't be deceived, Inspector. He's no better than the rest of them."

"If it wasn't for him keeping those two thugs at bay, you wouldn't have had us alive to rescue. That's what I'll be putting in my report, Governor Merridew. I'll be recommending to the Home Secretary and the Visiting Justices that this young man gets consideration for what he's done here today."

"The Justices are notoriously hard to convince," said Merridew assuredly. "They have never had cause to question my decisions before now, and I believe that under the circumstances they would consider my actions justified. As for Holmes…" He gave me an unfriendly look. "Take him out, Ward, and gather the men in the courtyard. I want them to see what happens to prisoners who break the rules."

"Belay that order," Lestrade barked. "I don't think you heard me, Merridew."

On the contrary, the tightness of his expression and forced smile revealed that he had. "I understand your concerns, _Mr_ Lestrade, but you don't have any authority here."

"Unless I'm mistaken, _Mr_ Merridew, it still says 'Her Majesty's Prison' on the door outside. As a loyal servant of Her Royal Highness, as you are yourself, I'm telling you to keep that man safe until such time as you're told otherwise. If he so much as breaks a fingernail, I'll be hearing about it. Do you understand me?"

Lestrade was a shade shorter than his opponent, but size mattered little when it came to the exercise of authority. Merridew, a tyrant in his own domain, was forced to acknowledge a power higher than himself. His condescension came with a look of hate for the Inspector and greatest contempt for me.

"Very well," said he grudgingly. "Have Holmes taken back to close confinement for the time being. And someone do something about Jones's whining!"

"You heard him, Doctor," said Lestrade.

"I have an appointment at my club, a partnership in a private practice," said Martin. "I don't see why I should be inconvenienced because Jones was dull-witted enough to get himself stabbed."

Lestrade was less than impressed. "You don't see why, Doc? Well, let me put it like this. If you stand by and let that man die, you won't have credibility enough to flog quack cures on London Bridge, let alone practice medicine again."

Martin paled and looked to Merridew for support. Seeing that none was forthcoming, it was then with the greatest of reluctance that he went to Jones's assistance, roughly pushing aside the warder who had been holding a compress to the wound so that the blood flowed afresh. If he set to work with less compassion than one might expect of a member of the medical profession, making Jones howl all the louder, he was at least doing the bare minimum for the injured man.

I suspected it was only because he was being compelled to do so. Once Lestrade was gone, with the order of execution still hanging over his head, I did not rate Jones's chances of survival highly if he remained at Postern. Neglect and infection was as sure a way to kill a man as any of Pepper's crude methods.

This too must have occurred to Jones, for as I was being hauled from the room, I heard him calling for Lestrade. As injured and in pain as he was, he had retained sense enough to remember what I had told him. With Lestrade at his indignant best, I had every hope that Jones would be leaving Postern under the Inspector's watchful eye. Soon I expected to be joining him.

How soon was less certain. I spent the night and most of the next day in solitary confinement. I had been thrown in with as much care as one might give a dirty shirt and then seemingly forgotten. I had no food and no water. I lay in the same clothes, stiff and browning in the places where they had been fouled with blood. As the iciness of night came, my cough returned to worry at my raw throat and rob me of sleep.

Morning came and went, and afternoon drifted into the dusk of a winter's evening. The day was as monotonous as it was long, unenlivened by even the thud of boots in the exercise yard below now that the men were confined to their quarters in the wake of Regan's abortive bid for freedom. Somewhere, in another part of the prison, a condemned man was counting down the hours of his final day. Or, if what I suspected was true, he was already far from Postern and his place had already been taken by one of the corpses conveniently provided by Merridew's armed men.

I wondered too when Lestrade would come, or whether he intended to leave me incarcerated until the deed was done. I fretted and chafed the hours away until finally, as the sun was bleeding its light into the fading sky, a key rattled in the lock and an unsmiling warder told me that an order for my release had come through.

I would have walked from Postern even as I was, but as in everything, there were rules and procedures to be followed. A meal of tough curried chicken and week-old dumplings was provided, along with half a cup of tepid tea. That done, I had to bathe – in water that approached a temperature that might generously called warm – and was provided with a suit of decent clothes, my own having been burned on the doctor's orders. That they were a good fit was only less surprising than the good quality of the cloth; I could only assume that this was Lestrade's doing as a means of expressing his gratitude after our near brush with disaster.

The final act in this rigmarole was an interview with Merridew before I was returned to the world of law-abiding citizens. I did not expect a fond farewell; that I had won an early release, ostensibly for my part in yesterday's debacle, must have stuck in his craw. I tried to keep that thought or indeed any thought in mind as I was ushered into his presence. Whether it was the warmth of the bath or a heavy meal after a day's starvation, I was finding it hard to concentrate. The stress of the last week and lack of sleep the night before was telling, and it was all I could do to keep my eyes open. I was grateful for the offered chair; without it, I might have fallen down.

Merridew was busy with his own dinner and was in no hurry to commence our interview. I had to wait while he finished devouring his final cut of roast beef, adding several drops of gravy to the already-stained napkin tucked into his collar. Downing the last of his drink, he sighed appreciatively and set the glass aside. Then he turned his attention to me.

"It seems you made a friend yesterday in that police inspector," said he.

His voice was neutral, his expression inscrutable. This was almost too affable for my liking and I felt the first quiver of doubt.

"An order for your release was delivered earlier," he went on. "You've earned yourself a pardon. You're a lucky man, Mr Henry Holmes."

He smiled, revealing canines that seemed strangely wolfish. Was that a yellow gleam too I saw in his eye? I blinked and tried to focus on his face, but the image wavered and blurred as if I were viewing it through water.

"A pity you've no one waiting for you. You did tell Dr Martin that you had no family?" His tone was now almost conversational. "No sweetheart either?"

I had to shake my head, for speech was eluding me.

"If you don't mind me saying so, Mr Holmes, a man in your position should try to cultivate company. It's no good thing for a man to be alone in the world. It makes him… vulnerable." Again, the smile, as disingenuous as ever, floated before my eyes. "And you being ill too. Well, I must say, you're a braver man than me. I wouldn't care to die alone." He chuckled as if he found the prospect amusing. "But there we can assist you, young man. The Good Book bids us give comfort to the dying and I think we can see our way clear to helping you on your way. "

At some point in this one-sided conversation it was borne upon me that I had been drugged and was rapidly slipping from confusion into an induced state of unconsciousness. My one futile thought was to make some attempt at escape, except that my legs were as unresponsive as my tongue. I slipped to the floor, fast approaching insensibility, as Merridew heaved himself from his chair to round the desk and came to stand over me.

"It's that pardon, you see, Mr Holmes," he explained. "It's too good a thing to waste on a foul little villain like you. If we let you go, you'll only be back in prison in a month or two. Mr Morgan, on the other hand, never so much as had a nuisance order filed against him in his life, and now he's had the misfortune to find himself in 'difficulties', as you might say. So what we thought, what with you and him being roughly the same size and build, is that he should take your place and you his. We released him about half hour ago and, well, here you are. You don't mind, do you?"

He knelt at my side and, loosening my collar, which in my failing state I was unable to prevent, pressed his fingers into the side of my throat to feel the slowing pulse.

"Yes, that's very good," said he. "It's been about twenty minutes since they fed you, plenty of time for the chloral to take effect. You're feeling tired, aren't you, Mr Holmes. Why don't you close your eyes? Not ready yet? Well, don't fight it. And don't you worry your head about tomorrow either. I'll see that Dr Martin gives you enough to keep you quiet. It wouldn't have to be this way if it wasn't for our hangman. He's a queer fish. He will insist that the prisoner should be alive when he hangs him." He gave a snort of laughter. "Mind you, it's quick nowadays, not like it used to be when they were left dangling for ages. It's better for you like this, you'll see, now that the doctor says you've some sort of malignant lung disease on account of your coughing up blood."

His hand came to rest lightly on my brow, his fingers moving downward to press my eyelids shut. He continued to talk, although his words were faint, as if he were at a great distance from me and receding further by the second.

"Look at it this way, Mr Holmes, it's far better for you to go quick than slow. It's better for Mr Morgan too, what with him being a healthy gentleman with a fortune waiting for him. All in all, I have to say, it's worked out for the best all round."

* * *

_**Cast your minds back to the Prologue, because we've arrived at that point.**_

_**They say that thirteen is unlucky for some, but will Chapter Thirteen prove to be fatally unlucky indeed for Mr Holmes?**_

_**Continued in Chapter Thirteen!**_


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**_The Particular Problem of Postern Prison_**

**Chapter Thirteen**

Of the night that followed, my remembrance is incomplete. At some point, while darkness held sway outside and my room was lit by the poor light of a tallow candle, a memory was formed when I opened my eyes to a land peopled by images that moved about me in blurs and indistinct shapes. I had had the strongest feeling of nausea and the bile had burned the back of my throat in its rush to escape. I had been cold and shivering, assaulted on all sides by the moving objects that had held me fast and forced a bitter-tasting liquid into my mouth.

The drug worked as before, and I had slept again, a dream-free, untroubled sleep. Only when the prison bell had chimed eight had consciousness begun to reassert itself. Perhaps that is too grand a description of my state, for although my eyes were open, a stupefying mixture of drugs had conspired to muddy my wits. It took a terrifyingly long time for anything approaching a rational thought to come to my mind. At first, I knew nothing, except confusion. Later, a name began to form – my name, I supposed – and then I held onto it every ounce of my being, as a drowning man might cling to the scantest piece of driftwood in the hope of deliverance.

I had a name – Sherlock Holmes – and precious little else. Another drifted in and out of my thoughts, Henry, as though it should mean something. I sought to follow where it led, only to be overwhelmed by the strongest sense of impending danger. Somewhere beyond the dying light of the candle, some indescribable horror lay in wait for me. I could not define it, except to know it was present. What form it should take in a room where I was alone and on my back on a bed of hard boards and swaddled in a dirty, vomit-stained blanket was beyond my grasp. I knew only that I had to rouse myself and escape from whatever it was that was waiting from me.

My best effort, after falling from the bed onto the hard stone floor and enduring an agonising crawl across the bare flagstones, brought me to a locked door. A breeze crept beneath, taunting me with smells of a world that existed beyond my prison walls. The door was locked from the outside, presenting an inside surface that was as smooth and cool as a solid sheet of ice. I had come so far but could go no further.

Frustration at the sheer futility of my labours should have made me rage against this obstacle, but I was drained. I could not muster up the energy to return to the bed, so that when the three men came they found me prostrate by the door, a helpless, exhausted wretch, unable to resist as I was hauled onto a stretcher and borne from the room.

With every step they took along the mildewing passageway, the same warning instinct that had driven me into action before now screamed dire panic in my ears. I tried raising my arms and managed only the feeblest of movements. My head I managed to lift a few inches, and it was to see the back of the younger man's head, his dark brown hair peeping out in a uniformly straight-line beneath the band of his cap. Above me, the older, blond-hair man with the scarred face, the one called Andrews, offered a thin smile of consolation, never breaking his stride for a moment.

"Not long now, sir," said he, as though my imminent encounter with whatever horror lay at the end of the passage was a thing to be lauded. "It's no good you getting yourself in a state about it. See if you can't walk the final steps on your own. You'll feel better in yourself for it if you can."

If I had any doubt about where those final steps might take me, they were soon dispelled when I was carried into the chamber of execution, where stood the white-painted gallows surrounded by a grim-faced gathering.

There is nothing quite like knowing one is about to be hanged for concentrating the mind, to paraphrase Dr Johnson. The effect of the drugs still held sway over my body, but at least my thoughts were my own. I knew these faces and I knew what they intended: Merridew, resigned and righteous in his sober black apparel; the chaplain, Bible in hand, trying his best to stifling a yawn; Dr Martin, forever glancing at his watch, with another appointment to keep elsewhere; and another man, whose name I did not know, but whose proprietorial glances and fidgeting adjustments to the length of rope with its end noosed ready for the neck of the condemned marked him out as the executioner.

At the head of our solemn procession strode Webb, Merridew's minion and dispenser of summary justice with the aid of boot and fist. The two warders who carried me between them were not familiar to me, as I was not to them. We, along with the hangman, were meeting for the first and, in my case, last time. Possibly they did not know my assumed identity and nor was it necessary. Their role in this unsavoury business was only as witnesses; should the need arise, they could testify that they had carried the condemned to his execution and that the sentence had been carried out.

It was a comfort not to die in ignorance, but I was at a loss to see how my restored awareness would make any difference to the outcome. It was not Sherlock Holmes they were hanging this day – although certainly his death would be the result of these proceedings – but a thief by the name of Henry Holmes, worthless in their eyes compared to the financial reward to be earned from letting a murderer go free to return to his former occupation.

By the time anyone learned of my fate, it would be too late for me. But if there was any consolation, it was in knowing that I would not be shuffled away into the quietness of the grave unavenged. I was sure that Lestrade would keep to our plan. He would be waiting outside, ready to waylay the coffin when it emerged, fully expecting not to find the body of the condemned man, Morgan, but one of the prisoners killed in the abortive escape bid. Instead he would find me.

What would he make of that, I wondered. Another blunder on the part of an upstart pretender, compounding the first of his errors in having himself incarcerated by then getting himself hanged to prove that what he suspected about the underhand dealings at Postern were true? I dare say there are few who have ever taken a part so far to prove a point and it was not a distinction of which I felt particularly proud. On the other hand, he might take the compassionate view, as befitting a man of his nature who had gone so far as to contribute to the collection made for a fellow officer and rival, and see my demise as the waste of potential that it undoubtedly was. I fancied that despite our differences we had forged something of worth during the course of our fledgling alliance, even if it was only simmering contempt for each other's methods.

Certainly I expected more of a response from him than I would my brother. Mycroft would rationalise my death as the inevitable consequence of my chosen course. He would not grieve, but would harvest the pity of others in telling them how in vain he had tried to steer his misguided brother to a safer path. Having manipulated the affair to his advantage, it would be 'poor Mycroft' they would be consoling, whilst their scorn would be reserved for 'inconsiderate Sherlock'. It would be a fitting epitaph, if Mycroft had any say in the matter.

It occurred to me, as my two attendant warders overseen by their superior, Webb, set about pinioning my wrists, ankles and arms, that therein might lie my salvation. My deception had been too polished, and conversely it had told against me. If they knew of my real identity, would it stay their hand, knowing that others knew of their arrangement, or, having come thus far, would they continue regardless? I had no way of knowing. Only a practical test would tell, and I had nothing to lose in pursuing the experiment.

I was not sure of my voice, but the movement of my mouth was enough to cause Webb to bend over me.

"What is he saying, Mr Webb?" asked Merridew.

"Sounds like 'sheer luck'," he replied. "Talking about how he was caught, no doubt." He chuckled. "Bad luck is more like it, Mr Morgan."

"We will observe dignity in this room," reproved the governor. "It is not our place to judge the wrongdoer. 'Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saieth the Lord'. You would do well to remember that, Mr Webb. Whatever his crimes, it is to his maker that Mr Morgan must answer. We are but the instruments of that higher justice. Mr Pelham?" He looked to the man I had taken to be the executioner. "May we proceed?"

A small man with a crooked nose and round glasses, Mr Pelham reacted to this question in much the same manner as if he had been asked whether the week's accounts had been prepared. That a man's life was about to be ended seemed to hold little meaning for him. His attitude was one of practicality: an unpleasant task had to be performed and the responsibility had fallen to him. He would do it to the best of his ability and that would be an end of the matter, for all parties concerned.

"I believe I am ready, Mr Merridew. It is approaching nine, sir."

"I am well aware of the time. Very well, Mr Webb, get Mr Morgan to his feet."

They stared down at me, waiting for me to comply. I had no intention of going meekly to my death; indeed, I had no intention of going anywhere. If I could delay the proceedings long enough, if nine o'clock passed and the prison bell did not ring, I harboured a vain hope that outside Lestrade might become suspicious enough to investigate.

Since every second counted, I made some show of trying to rise, no easy thing when one's arms and ankles are pinioned. Patience was not seen as a virtue that day and, at Merridew's order, I was hauled upright and dragged over to the mark painted on the trapdoor. They tried to leave me, but I had not the strength to stand. I sagged and Andrews was left to curse as he struggled to take my weight.

"Dear me," said Pelham, pushing his glasses a little higher up his nose, "another one overcome by the emotion of the moment. One would wish for a little more fortitude from the condemned."

"Mr Webb, get a chair," ordered Merridew. "And be quick about it. Time is pressing."

"I'm sure Mr Morgan won't mind a little delay."

"He might not, but I do," said Dr Martin. "Can't we do without a chair? Damned waste of good furniture, if you ask me."

"We can wait, Doctor," Merridew replied. "Mr Webb won't be long."

True to his word, Webb's absence was all too brief for my liking. A spindle-backed chair was found and thrust under me. I tried falling to one side and saw my efforts rewarded with a steadying hand on my shoulder whilst the leather belt around my torso was unbuckled and threaded through the upright struts of the chair back to hold me in place.

"One minute to nine," said Merridew, consulting his watch. "Mr Pelham, if you would be so good…"

"I don't know that I can, Mr Merridew," Pelham protested. "The chair changes everything. The drop will have to be recalculated. I'll have to let the rope out again."

"Then recalculate and make the necessary adjustments," came the terse reply. "But see to the prisoner first."

The little man obeyed without question. The rope came first, thrust over my head to lay heavy against the skin of my throat. Next came the white hood, dragged down before my eyes so that I might not see the moment the lever was thrust back to operate the trapdoors and that the others might be spared my final moments. The fine linen fluttered back and forth, the feather touch of an obscene butterfly against my cheek, as my breath drove in and out of my lungs with a force over which I had no control.

I believe there is no shame in admitting that as the waiting went on my hands would not stop trembling or that my soul was rent with some strange thrill of horror and trepidation. I defy any man to sit as I did, with a rope around my neck and the knowledge that the next moment could be my last, and feel nothing. It was not fear of death or the process of reaching that stage that occupied my thoughts, but an overwhelming sense of frustrated anger. There was much I had left undone. Vamberry was still at large, Morgan was abroad using my assumed name, and anything I had learnt from this experience was about to go to waste.

That last consideration cut the deepest. Having stared into the abyss, nothing that could follow in the course of my subsequent career would have ever had quite the same effect on me again. My nerves would have been proof against the severest of shocks. Of all the injustices I held against Merridew, that was the bitterest. I had underestimated the cunning of the man, and the cruelty of which he was capable. Never to have a chance of rectifying my mistakes rankled – and yet even at this late stage hope was not ready to be abandoned.

Rescue came as the clock struck the first peel of nine. In the silence of the execution chamber, the sound of running footsteps in the corridor outside was unmistakeable. Martin uttered an exclamation, followed by a curse from Webb and then an expression of displeasure from Merridew. I felt the movement of air as someone passed me, heading for the door to investigate the unseemly disturbance. I heard the door hinges squeal open and the metal knob thud against the plasterwork, and then, amidst the tramp of heavy boots and the laboured breathing of their owners, came a familiar voice, ordering a halt to the proceedings.

"How dare you interrupt in this manner, Inspector," Merridew retorted. "You have no authority to—"

"I have a pardon for this man, Governor. He is to be released."

"Morgan, the Chiswick poisoner? I very much doubt it. Let me see this document."

"Certainly, Mr Merridew, after you show me the face of that man."

A momentary pause ensued. "Inspector Lestrade," Merridew began reasonably, "you know full well that is not how we do things at Postern. I do not believe for one moment that you have a pardon in your possession. I understand that you had concerns the last time you were here, but let me assure you, we have followed the law to the letter in this instance. Now, if you would excuse me—"

The next I knew, Lestrade had sprung to my side and pulled the hood from my head. "That is not Morgan the poisoner," he said, gesturing to me. "He was arrested at Clapham an hour ago travelling under this man's name. How do you explain that, Governor?"

No reply was needed, for the explanation was self-evident. The scene deteriorated into confusion as the host of police descended on the gathering. Protests rose loud and only Merridew remained unmoved, reserving a look of cold fury for both myself and Lestrade, one that slowly transformed into something approaching grim satisfaction. What he found amusing in the midst of capture intrigued me and I followed the turn of his gaze to where Pelham was violently denying any part in the proceedings.

"This is nothing to do with me!" he was whining. "I was told this was the condemned man. Believe me, I did not know!"

It was the direction that his path was taking him as he backed away from the approaching constable that gave me the greatest cause for concern. Each step took him closer to the lever that operated the trapdoor. I had yet to be freed from the noose that lay still around my neck while Lestrade was making heavy work of buckle of the body belt. I tried to speak, and too late Lestrade was alerted to what was about to happen.

I could only watch as Pelham blundered back, collided with the lever and suddenly the floor gave way beneath me.

* * *

_**Get out of that one, Mr Holmes! I'm giving nothing away if I say of course he does… but how? Speculation welcome!**_

_**Continued in Chapter Fourteen!**_


	15. Chapter Fourteen

**_The Particular Problem of Postern Prison_**

**Chapter Fourteen**

"Well, here's a sight for sore eyes. Good to see you up and about, Mr Holmes."

Up I most certainly was; whether I was in any fit state to be 'about', as Lestrade quaintly put it, was quite another matter. I was plagued by the twin evils of nausea and headache: the one, a lingering effect from the drugs administered during the night to ensure my silence, the other the inevitable result of what happens when one's head collides with a stone floor after a fall of some nine feet through an open trapdoor.

So much I had been told by a garrulous constable who had brought me a cup of tepid black coffee. His explanation had been littered with a good many 'bless my souls' and 'never seen anything like its', but little worthwhile detail. He had heard of men escaping the gallows, so he told me, but he never thought he would live to see the day when he got to see it with his own eyes. That I had escaped with a bloodied crown and a cracked collarbone he thought nothing short of a miracle. If I had been 'a proper villain', he opined, that alone should have earned my reprieve.

I had felt disinclined to enlighten him that hangmen were persistent in their trade and never gave up until three attempts had been made to despatch the condemned. He had gone on his way still blessing his soul, and I had been left in the uncomfortable surroundings of the prison infirmary for the best part of the morning to mull over my latest brush with extinction with only my own tedious thoughts for company.

That Lestrade had found the time to seek me out only now spoke of the trying nature of his own endeavours. I was not deceived by the dogged ebullience of his greeting. It did not come easily to a man who had seen and heard enough in the past few hours to fuel his nightmares for a lifetime. I was able to deduce as much from the lines deeply engraved around his eyes and the slump of his shoulders. As he took a moment to rub the sleep from his eyes, I thought he looked not so much tired as weary of life in general.

The distinction is a subtle one. Learn enough about one's fellow human beings and even the most forgiving and optimistic of souls may become jaded. At his best, said Aristotle, man may be the noblest of all animals; separated from law and justice, he is the worst. He could well have been describing Postern Prison in that last sentiment. A place created by the law, descended into chaos. I did not envy Lestrade his morning's work, although I was eager to hear the results.

He slumped down on the bed beside me and cast a glance into the half-full and now cold cup of coffee. "Is that all you've had?" he asked.

"It's all I could stomach."

"I'm not surprised," he grunted. "You look like death warmed up." He offered me a faint smile as he realised that his words came closer to the truth than either of us would have liked to admit. "In a manner of speaking, of course," he added, with forced brightness.

He plucked the cup from my hands, emptied the contents into a chamber pot and replenished it with the contents of his hip-flask. "I keep this for emergencies," he explained, imagining wrongly that I might take a dim view of his keeping liquor to hand. "You have to be prepared for any contingency in this job. Here, you drink that, Mr Holmes. It will bring the colour back in your cheeks. Certainly I've never seen a soul more in need of it."

I drank and it did all Lestrade had promised. What I wanted more, however, was the news he brought and he seemed vaguely disappointed when I left the greater quantity of the brandy untouched.

"Constable Wright hasn't told you, I take it?" said he in answer to my question. "Well, I'm not surprised. Damnedest thing I ever saw, Mr Holmes, and I've seen a few things in my time, I can tell you. If my hair hasn't turned white by now, I dare say it never will."

The countenance he put on this show of good humour appeared sincere, as though witnessing a failed hanging was all in a day's work. That his face was nearing the colour of his collar and his eyes held the haunted look of a man who had been shaken to the core of his being might have been lost on the less observant.

In the silence, he toyed with the hip-flask, passing it from one hand to the other, as much in need of its fortifying properties as I had been, but too proud to admit to such a weakness in the presence of a civilian. The division remained and I imagined it ever would, regardless of whatever occurred in the course of our professional lives.

"What did happen?" I prompted.

"That fool of a hangman fell against the lever. But I s'pose you remember that much. When we saw you lying at the bottom of the drop, we all thought you were a goner and no mistaking. We would have had that Doc Martin take a look at you, but under the circumstances…"

"He might well have tried to finish what Merridew started."

"Yes, that did cross our minds. Lucky for you we had Sergeant Penglase with us. He knows a thing or two about medicine."

I noted his exaggerated use of the plural pronoun. One had to admire his restraint not to lapse into the singular; proprieties had to be maintained, even in conversations with gentlemen who had had a close brush with death. I was not about to embarrass him, especially after his timely intervention, and kept my remarks confined to the subject at hand.

"Penglase is a doctor?" I asked.

"No, he keeps rabbits."

"Isn't that a non sequitur?"

"No, it's a viable business as far as I can tell. He keeps telling us one day he'll give up the Force and make his living that way. There's money in rabbit farming, according to Penglase." Lestrade shrugged. "Well, I'm not the man to argue with him, especially since he took one look at you and said you'd been knocked unconscious. That was good enough for us. We carried you in here and left you to sleep it off."

I was grateful that Sergeant Penglase's diagnosis had been correct, even if his qualifications were less than exemplary.

"You must be the luckiest man in England, Mr Holmes. If that fellow they had in to do the turning off – Burrows is his name – had tied off the rope like he was meant to do, you'd have had a wry neck by now. As it was, it's his ineptitude that saved your life. After you fell, the other end of the rope came off like a whiplash and caught Merridew across the face. They say he might lose his eye."

"Don't expect a show of sympathy from me, Inspector."

"No, nor would I. As I say, you got off lightly. We should rub you for good luck."

"If you consider a broken collarbone fortunate."

"Better than a broken neck. There's not many people walk away from the gallows."

"I would say that the contrary has been true for too long at Postern, if one has money." I held his gaze. "How many, Lestrade?"

An expression of discomfort distorted upon his features. He saw that my interest was not to be deterred, however, and resigned himself to the task. "It's hard to be sure, Mr Holmes."

"You could start by determining how many executions have taken place at Postern since Merridew was appointed governor."

"Thirty-six," he said without hesitation. Despite his initial reticence to tell me, he had evidently been making enquiries of his own. Having come thus far, he wanted to share what he had learnt, as if by doing so to dispel the horror of it. "I've set those against the dates of men released from Postern. I don't say that I'm right in every case and I dare say not all the condemned men had the same resources at their disposal as Morgan and Vamberry, but taking it all into account, if we look at the most likely candidates…"

"How many?"

He sighed. "It could be as many as nineteen. You would have made it a round twenty."

It was a distinction that failed to impress me.

"Nineteen men," he went on heavily, "hanged for no other reason than that they were due for release."

"And alone in the world," I added. "There was no one to miss them, Lestrade. That is why they were chosen. There was no one to raise the alarm when they failed to appear."

I felt his eyes on me. "Someone would have missed you."

"I had said otherwise." Wisely, he said nothing in reply, for I was in no mood to enter into a debate about my soured family relations. "What Merridew did not take into account was police intervention. Did you have a pardon for Morgan?"

Lestrade grinned impishly. "I had a copy of the _Ferret Fanciers' Review_ wrapped in brown paper. You can thank my father-in-law for that. If he hadn't made a fuss about my collecting his subscription this morning, I'd have never got past the man on the front door."

"It didn't convince Merridew."

"It wouldn't have convinced me either," Lestrade chuckled. "Morgan was as guilty as man could be. Which is why we got the nod when he was sighted by a constable at Clapham station. Lucky thing for you that he was travelling under your name. By heavens, if we'd got here a couple of minutes later…"

A long breath hissed between his teeth.

"I don't mind telling you, Mr Holmes, I thought you were barking up the wrong tree about this business of substituting dead bodies for condemned men. To be honest with you, I thought that Vamberry had pulled a ruse like old Deacon Brodie with a steel collar and a silver tube down his throat." [1]

I managed a half-hearted laugh. "Would it surprise you to hear that it doesn't work, Inspector?"

"So they say. There are also them that say he was revived after the hanging and escaped to Paris."

"They said the same about Henry Fauntleroy." [2]

"Someone was buried at Bunhill Fields, Mr Holmes, but it doesn't mean it was him."

"A popular misconception, one that may now never be proved to anyone's satisfaction either way. However, I would suggest that if you, Lestrade, had Vamberry's resources at your disposal, would you trust your neck to nothing more than a collar and tube? No, he could not take that chance."

"Especially not with what he had in mind." Lestrade gave me a meaningful look. "You were right, you know about that dead barrister. He was the defence in Vamberry's case. It looks to me as though his client wasn't happy with the outcome." It was a half-hearted attempt at humour that fell solidly on stony ground. "I went to see the judge in the case, as you suggested. He's out of the country and likely to be for several weeks, so he's in no danger."

"Unless Vamberry follows him. He seems a persistent fellow. There's been no word about his whereabouts, I take it?"

"I've put the word out, but if you ask me he's gone." Lestrade considered. "I'll see if we can't get a confidential message to the judge, just to put him on his guard. Not that it'll do much good. By all accounts, he's a stubborn old cuckoo. He's likely to see it as a challenge rather than a threat."

"You might tell him what happened to Gregson."

"He's awake, you know."

"Who is?"

"Gregson," said Lestrade, suddenly looking up. "Oh, didn't I say? I found a message waiting for me from his wife the other night when I'd got back from making the arrangements for your release. Turns out he wasn't as badly injured as the doctor said. A silly old fool, that's what Mrs Gregson called him. She wanted another opinion, and got it too. This new fellow says he'll be back on duty in a month." His eyes took a distant, appreciative glaze. "She's a fine woman is Mrs Gregson."

"How is he?" He was still lost in contemplation of Mrs Gregson's finer qualities and was only roused by a nudge. "How is Gregson?" I repeated.

"As irritating as ever," Lestrade grunted. "He was asking for me, would you believe. Took me by the hand like an old friend and said he was never more pleased to see anyone in his life. I'm not sure that knock he took to the head when he hit the pavement didn't addle his brains."

He pulled a face. I smiled to myself. Whatever rivalry existed between the two, it was not difficult to see that the recovery of his old adversary had affected Lestrade more than he would have cared to admit.

"Well, he had plenty to say for himself. I bet you can't guess what was the first thing he said to me."

"I imagine he told you about our arrangement."

Lestrade's eyes narrowed. "Yes, that's exactly what he did say. He said he'd put you in Postern at your request and that I was to get you out. Mark that, Mr Holmes – he wasn't expecting you to escape."

I nodded. "I owe him ten pounds."

"I think he's got more on his mind than your wager."

"Nevertheless, Lestrade, he was correct, as I learnt to my cost. Even in formulating my alternative theory, my reasoning was flawed. I had not anticipated that the bodies used in the substitution were those of living men."

Lestrade sobered. "It's as cold-blooded a thing as anything I've ever come across. If you want my opinion for what it's worth, Mr Holmes, it was a question of money. You see, this Mr Burrows, he's a local pig farmer. Postern doesn't have a designated hangman, so Burrows stands in whenever he's needed. I've been around villains long enough to know when a man's lying to me, so I've got good reason to believe him when he says he didn't know what Merridew was doing. Therefore…"

He took a deep breath and regarded me gravely.

"In order to make this sideline of theirs more profitable, Merridew and his cronies were using live prisoners so they didn't have to bring Burrows in on their plans. He wouldn't know who he was hanging. Merridew used to give him the necessary information about height and weight, and he did his calculations from that, without ever meeting the condemned man face-to-face. And they were clever enough to cover themselves, should anyone ask any questions later. The chaplain would say he was ill a couple of nights before the execution and have another priest stand in for him. That way, this other fellow could testify that he had spoken to the condemned and could verify his identity."

"As my cousin did."

"Quite so. The two warders who were on attendance were always brought in from other prisons; again, so they could swear to it that the execution had been carried out without knowing who it was who had been hanged." He blinked. "If you get my meaning."

"Yes, I understand."

There was more in that statement than perhaps he appreciated. I understood that I had been convenient, that the release Lestrade had secured for me had been my death warrant. I understood too that I had not been first choice to take Morgan's place on the scaffold. Before Arthur Tippet had been shot that fateful afternoon, he had already been marked as a suitable replacement. His last examination had not been for his benefit, but for the hangman's, to ensure that the drop was calculated correctly.

I caught myself suppressing an involuntary shiver. Cold-blooded was certainly one word for it.

"What now, Inspector?"

"It's out of my hands, Mr Holmes. I've been given my marching orders." He saw my expression and hurried to explain. "Merridew, Martin, Webb and the chaplain are under arrest all right, but it's not my case. Several gentlemen arrived about half hour ago waving their official credentials and saying the Chief Constable had sent them. Said they'd be taking over and we were all to go home and not breathe a word about what had happened to anyone. If you ask me, that's the last we'll hear of it. This will never come to trial."

Unfortunately, I had to acknowledge the truth of his prediction. It was in no one's interest to raise a scandal. Public ignorance would be considered preferable to causing doubt and a loss of faith in the justice system. The _status quo_ had to be maintained, whatever the cost. That it was counted in men's lives would not affect that decision.

Nor could I believe that that appearance of these officials who had robbed Lestrade of his convictions was mere coincidence. In my last case, I had had dealings with a similar Whitehall gentleman, adept at handling the most unsavoury of businesses and who had been sent to smooth over matters by 'a friend'. This benefactor had not needed a name, for then, as now, I recognised the heavy hand of my brother.

"Why did you go to Mycroft?" I asked on impulse.

Lestrade started and stared at me as though I had managed to purge the deepest secrets from his soul. "How the devil did you—" He checked himself and smiled. "I won't ask how you knew but since you do, yes, I did go to see your brother. I was waiting for you at the Yard and when you didn't show up yesterday, I was concerned. Call it an old copper's instinct, but I knew there wasn't something right about Merridew."

"Mosteyn Jones would have told you that much."

"To be honest with you, Mr Holmes, he didn't say much. Something about someone wanting to kill him and saying that you'd told him to mention Gregson. I gathered from his nonsense that you considered him important."

"Yes, I do. Is he alive?"

"And bawling. He kept telling me he wanted to go to Broadmore, so that's where he's gone. He's in the prison infirmary there. With him out of trouble, my concern was for you. If it wasn't Merridew keeping you, I thought you might have taken it into your head to go after Vamberry on your own. In either case, I didn't know where we stood. Then it crossed my mind that your first call might have been to see your brother, in light of what had happened."

"I wish you hadn't done that, Lestrade."

"Nor do I, now you come to mention it. He's got a temper on him, hasn't he, your brother?" He delved into his top pocket. "He said I was to give this to you, if I found you."

It was a note, written in Mycroft's fastidiously neat hand. The message itself was clipped and terse, demanding my presence at the first convenient opportunity. I thrust it into my pocket with more violence than was necessary and felt a lance of pain stab at my shoulder. It reminded me that somewhere beyond these walls, a clean change of clothes and a comfortable bed awaited me. The thought of the chill room with the coal costing more than my purse could manage resurrected the memory of the hollow cough that had plagued me through the winter and made my nights sleepless and uncomfortable.

"You should get that seen to," said Lestrade. "That Martin fellow says you're a worthless consumptive."

"And better a quick death than a slow one?" I shook my head. "Merridew said much the same. Let them find some other means of settling the account with their conscience. As for me, I intend to go home."

Lestrade rose. "Where is home? I only ask in case I need to consult you again."

I told him.

"Smithfield, eh?" said he, scribbling the address in his notebook. "Handy for the hospital."

"I dare say I can prevail upon one of the medical students to practise his skills on my shoulder."

"Probably best if you do before you see your brother." He must have seen my expression and knew he had overstepped the mark. "I know it's none of my business, Mr Holmes," said he, a little bolder for having ventured so far, "and I dare say you've got your reasons, but it occurs to me that if I had a brother with a penchant for getting himself into trouble, I might be tempted to interfere to steer him towards a safer course."

Exhaustion and a sense of gratitude for having saved my life spared Lestrade the sort of response I usually reserved for those incautious enough to give me the benefit of what they considered their good advice.

"You're correct, Inspector," I said coldly. "It is none of your business."

* * *

_**Something tells me that an interview with big brother is imminent!**_

_**Continued in Chapter Fifteen!**_

* * *

[1] Deacon William Brodie (1741-88) was a respectable Edinburgh cabinet-maker, councillor and churchman by day, and a thief and burglar by night. The tale of Brodie's double life inspired Robert Louis Stevenson's _The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde_ (1888), whose father owned furniture made by Brodie.

[2] Henry Fauntleroy (1784-1824) was hanged before a 100,000-strong crowd at Newgate for having embezzled £250,000. It was later claimed that he had used a silver tube, but there was no evidence of this, and the body buried at Bunhill Fields, London, was almost certainly his. Tales of the condemned using of silver tubes in the throat to cheat the noose is an urban legend that probably originated from the use of such 'implants' by doctors to aid patients who had difficulty breathing and swallowing.


	16. Chapter Fifteen

**_The Particular Problem of Postern Prison_**

**Chapter Fifteen**

Several hours later, I was staring out of a rain-speckled train window at the distant, fog-shrouded lights of the city. It was a reassuring sight. London in her many colours was preferable to what I had left behind. Postern was a county away and every mile that brought me nearer to home allowed me to make a truce with the worst of my recent experiences.

It was, I knew, an unsatisfactory ending.

I could find little comfort in the knowledge that Merridew's murderous schemes had been stultified. That nineteen men had had to die before his depravity was discovered was a deplorable state of affairs. The officious men who had ousted Lestrade from the case had been at pains to assure me that 'justice would be done' as I was packed into a first-class compartment and sent on my way. Whether it would be seen to be done was another matter. Someone had judged that the good people of this country would sleep all the sounder in their beds for not knowing what had happened at Postern.

Somewhere out there too, Vamberry was still at large. With hindsight, when Endymion had sought me out, I doubted that either of us could have envisaged the events that would lead to murder and the scaffold. Time would heal the broken bones and erase the livid red bruise I wore beneath my collar as proof of my misadventure. I was not confident I could say the same about my mental state.

I had been at pains to reassure Lestrade that I was well. In fact, the opposite was true. I had a fragile hold upon my imagination, which fed readily on my vague recollection of events. The memories slipped my grasp occasionally to taunt me, making me start when they had for a fleeting moment imprinted Merridew's florid features on the face of my fellow passenger, who sat huddled in the corner, snoring and gently dribbling into his red knitted scarf.

Try as I might to chide myself for my foolish fancies and dismiss their influence, I was aware that this was but a temporary relief. The night would tell, in those long hours between dusk and dawn. For the future, work and an occupied mind would force a retreat. Should that fail, I would have to place my trust in artificial means and the consolation offered to the sleepless in every chemist shop across the country.

More pressing concerns concentrated my mind when I alighted at Waterloo. Spiralling tendrils of fog had reached below the roof into the gaping cavity of the station, wrapping themselves insolently about the travellers and mixing with the stale stench of smoke and oil to create a suffocating atmosphere. I buttoned my borrowed overcoat against the cold and outside found a cab to take me to Smithfield. We sped across the sullen black river into the heart of the city, where the lamps were ringed with blurred yellow halos and people and horses moved like ghosts of the dead, glimpsed but for a moment before being swallowed up in the moving banks of silent fog.

At St Bart's, I paid my fare with burrowed money and wrapped the burrowed scarf over my nose and mouth as proof against the damp air. I was returning with very little of my own; these garments, much like the money, had been given to me by the nameless men who had taken charge of Postern. I did not imagine that they would want them back, even if I could ever locate their owners.

Someone I did need to locate was a doctor to examine my shoulder. For once the hospital seemed to be bereft of staff, and the best anyone could suggest was that I try the local public house. There I found several medical students in varying degrees of inebriation. Of these, the only one who was still moderately conscious needed persuading with promises of another drink to tend my injuries. He did his best under the circumstances, even if he did have trouble discerning on which side my collarbone was broken. Finally, after a consultation which took a good deal longer than it ought, I left with my arm in a sling and a new appreciation for the limits of human endurance.

Half-dazed with pain and exhaustion, I wandered home to my meagre rooms across the square where traitors and martyrs had suffered execution centuries before and the gutters ran still with blood on market day. I made my abject apologies to my landlady for having been absent for so long without an explanation, and was rewarded with a barrage of coarse Billingsgate language and a key for my door. As I opened the door, my nostrils were assaulted by the musty smell of room too long closed without ventilation. I staggered like a drunkard to the mantle in search of a match for the lamp and brought a feeble light to my humble surroundings.

That done, I lit myself a cigarette, my first after nine days of force abstinence, and took a moment to enjoy it. Only then did I feel suitably fortified to confront the visitor who had made his home in the shadows.

"Good evening, Sherlock," Mycroft replied. "If, indeed, that is you."

It would be untrue of me to say that he was the last person I expected to see. An interview with my brother was long overdue. That he had taken the unusual step of stirring himself from his habitual routine was the only unforeseen aspect of our meeting.

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

"I am here by necessity rather than choice. I should have preferred to have conducted proceedings in the far more congenial surroundings of my club. Knowing you as I do, however, I judged that you might ignore my summons. Such is the gravity of the situation that matters cannot wait for you to make yourself agreeable. Sherlock, we need to talk."

"I would disagree."

"That is your prerogative," said he. "You would not dispute, I think, that there are matters between us that have been left too long unresolved. For instance, tell me, is it your wish to die? I only ask so that I may put aside the funds necessary for your funeral. The cost of giving the dead 'a good send-off', as the shilling shockers term it, is burdensome. I am assuming that you require a decent funeral. Your predilection leans towards burial in a pauper's communal grave. Personally, I could think of nothing worse. If one cannot have privacy in death, what is the advantage in dying?"

There was something about Mycroft's manner as he spoke that brought out the worst in me. It has ever been the case. Despite our difference in years, Mycroft has always known how to needle me, a technique I have yet to perfect in return. I fear my reply was poor by comparison.

"Not one of your best attempts at humour," I remarked.

"No, but then I am tired." I watched as he unhurriedly helped himself to a pinch of snuff. "You don't mind, do you? The smell in here quite turns my stomach. Added to which, it has been a most trying day."

"I imagine arranging others to do your dirty work must be exhausting."

He bestowed upon me a look that was anything but brotherly.

"There are problems, Sherlock, and there are resolutions. You excel at the first, but not the latter. Do you imagine I have no other calls upon my time than to bring order to the chaos you leave in your wake? Your behaviour, sir, is intolerable!"

Inevitably, I knew where this conversation would lead. What Mycroft failed to appreciate was that I was no longer susceptible to his bullying. After the events of the morning, nothing Mycroft could bring to bear against me held much terror.

In this new mood of misplaced confidence, I opened the door and suggested he leave. For one heady moment, I thought he was going to take me at my word. Then, as deliberately as I had opened it, he shut the door and turned the key.

"Not before you hear what I have to say."

"I have heard it before."

"Then why have you chosen to ignore my advice?"

"Because I prefer to make my own mistakes."

Mycroft stifled what sounded like a snort of exasperation. "Mistakes? Good heavens, Sherlock, you were hanged."

"You exaggerate. Were that the case, I would be dead."

"Are you sure you aren't?" said he critically.

"I fell."

"Through a trap door and with a rope around your neck!"

I sighed. There was little to be gained in disputing the facts. "Your 'creatures' have kept you informed as to events at Postern, I see."

"I have been privy to certain details from many quarters."

The effort of standing and belittling me at the same time was too much of an effort for him. He deserted his post at the door and settled himself once more in the only decent chair in the room.

"In truth, brother, I could scarce believe my ears when that impertinent detective told me where you were. That is the second time he has accosted me, and by thunder, it shall be the last! I have been patient with you, Sherlock, but this is too much. None of our family has ever sunk so low as to be incarcerated."

"Only because they had good lawyers."

"Irrelevant, sir!" Mycroft thudded the pointed spike of his cane against the bare boards. "You bring shame upon our good name with this behaviour. No, you will hear me out. I confess I have never understood this inexplicable desire of yours to explore the depths to which human nature may descend. I have, however, attempted to guide you towards those avenues which may present both a challenge to that eager mind of yours and a safe harbour in which to practise your particular skills."

I left the thought hang before reply. "Ricoletti offered no safe harbour."

Mycroft's brows rose questioningly. "That still rankles with you, brother? I should not be surprised. Your silence these last months has been eloquent on the subject. Still, I hoped you would have got over your resentment by now. It is not in your nature to hold a grudge. It is one of the more pleasing aspects of your personality."

I was not about to give way to false flattery. "You knew what Miles was, Mycroft. You used me to wage your petty war against him."

"I gave you more credit that you deserved," he retorted. "You failed in that commission. Miles retains his liberty to continue his nefarious practices across half of Europe. As for the other half, no doubt he has plans for that too. That was not the object of the exercise."

A laugh escaped me. "What a contrary fellow you are! In one breath, you censure my conduct whilst in the other you deplore our cousin's freedom."

"I deplore his actions. That is quite different."

"The end result was the same. You thought to manipulate me to confound his schemes."

Mycroft returned my gaze levelly. "Then I am not alone in that. For an intelligent fellow, you can be very dense at times. Has the reason why that objectionable Inspector, a so-called professional in his field, is pleased to accept the assistance of an amateur never occurred to you? Then I shall tell you, brother. You have prostituted your talents to Scotland Yard. They use your intelligence and steal the glory for themselves."

"At least they are honest about it."

"Honesty has many faces, most of them false. Even now you scorn the truth. Do you intend to play the fool for the rest of your life?"

"Better my own fool than Whitehall's fool."

Mycroft leaned back in his chair with a soft sigh that sounded almost like a laugh. "I remember a time when I was as naïve as you. I am pleased to say that it did not prevent me from accepting the position that I now hold. It is as well for you that I did. Where would you be now without me?"

Pride in one's own independence is a brittle thing. I countered as Mycroft knew I would. In so doing, I fell into his trap.

"You have done nothing for me, Mycroft, except to try to destroy my career. Lestrade told me that much when he came to you seeking my assistance. You sent him away with a lie."

My accusation brought an uncharacteristic glint to his eyes. "I do not deny it," said he. "Why should I pretend that I abhorring seeing my brother used as the cat's-paw of Scotland Yard? If they cannot do their duty, then let them be replaced by abler men. As for your 'career'," he added with what sounded like scorn, "you tell me you aspire to be a 'consulting detective', and yet it is painfully obvious that you yourself have failed to appreciate the nature of your chosen profession."

"In what way?"

"The very name should tell you that much. You wish to be a consulting detective – then consult, my dear boy. Find yourself a comfortable chair and have them come to you. By all means, throw your energies into your work, but do not jeopardise your life. You are my brother, my only kin, and if I understand you at all, it is in this need we share to occupy our minds. I have sought to show you that it does not have to be at the cost of your continued existence. Ah, I see by that look in your eye that you doubt me. Have you never wondered how Endymion found you in this den of thieves?"

In all honesty, I had not given it a moment's thought. Endymion had appeared out of nowhere with his strange tale of dead men buying garments in Piccadilly and thereafter all other considerations had ceased to hold any importance for me. The lure of a case after months of ennui had proved irresistible – as Mycroft had known it would.

"Endymion came to me looking for you," he explained. "It seems Miles had told him you were the man to consult in a crisis. The case appeared innocuous enough. All you had to do was to locate Vamberry. I had not anticipated that you would want to take a more active approach to the investigation. It was, in any case, a wasted effort. Endymion had already alerted me to the events at Postern. Matters were in hand. And then I lost sight of you."

He steepled his fingers over his chest and regarded me gravely.

"At that point, I began to have my concerns. You have never been out of my sight, Sherlock, despite your apparent disregard for our fraternal bond. Knowing where you are is infinitely preferable to _not_ knowing. You believe you have struck out on your own; let me correct you, brother. The work you believe you obtained at St Bart's through dint of your own merit was arranged by me. I have been paying your wages these past months. It was a meagre sum, just enough to cover your rent and allow you a few of those luxuries to which you have become accustomed. The coal you have used, the food you have eaten, that tobacco you are smoking now – I paid for it."

I threw the cigarette into the grate. "To what end?"

Mycroft shrugged. "I could not stand by and watch you starve. At the same time, they do say that suffering is good for the soul. I allowed you that, and the occasional case I deemed suitable."

"You flatter me, Mycroft. You judged Vamberry _suitable_?"

"Locating the man was elementary," said he tersely. "A child could have done it. What you should have done, what _I_ had to do in your stead, was to look to his finances. A wealthy man does not give up his riches easily. He had deposited the greater proportion in safety deposit box in a small provincial bank in Norwich. From there, it was a simple matter of waiting for him to return to replenish his funds and then apprehending him."

My head was beginning to spin from an excess of revelation and exhaustion. For a moment, I was not sure, but it had sounded as though Mycroft was telling me he had found Vamberry.

Mycroft gave a peremptory sniff in answer to my question. "Indeed I did, sir, at no considerable expense and discomfort to myself. Unfortunately, it was not before he had taken his revenge on the detective and the barrister in his case. As for Vamberry, he has spared us the expense of a trial by carrying out his own execution. He was found in a doss-house in Silvertown down by docks with a gun in his hand and a bullet in his brain."

"How very obliging of him."

He caught the note of sarcasm in my voice. "Vamberry is dead by his own hand; that is an end of the matter. The events at Postern are not so easily dismissed. Merridew and the others will be dealt with in due course. As for the others…" He drew a deep breath. "It is to be regretted your detective friend involved so many of his men. The fewer who know about this, the better. As it stands, those men will be encouraged to resign. One of them has plans to run a rabbit farm, I understand. Another has spoken of a public house in the country. This can be arranged favourably, in return for their silence."

"And if they do not keep their side of the bargain?"

"Then there will be consequences." Mycroft paused and watched me closely for my reaction. "Lestrade concerns me," said he. "From what little I have seen of the man, he does not appear to be the type to resign quietly."

"He is keen to see justice done, as am I."

"He is a pragmatist, Sherlock. What are the lives of nineteen men compared with the security of this country? There would be riots on the streets if news of this were ever to be reported. How many would die in the outrages that must surely follow? No, I believe Lestrade can be persuaded to be reasonable. It is more than his job's worth to make a fuss. Life could become very uncomfortable for him. Besides, who would take the word of a mere inspector over that of Her Majesty's Government?"

"He would have my support."

"Possibly you have misunderstood," said Mycroft, rising as briskly to his feet as his bulk would permit. "We cannot permit you to make a nuisance of yourself. Should you attempt it, we would be forced to take certain measures."

"A bullet through my brain perhaps?"

Mycroft essayed a smile. "Do you imagine we are quite so crude? There are many ways in which a man might be protected from his own unruly nature. It would be a waste, granted, especially as there are those of us who believe you could be of greater use."

"Us meaning Whitehall?"

He occupied himself in pulling on his gloves. "It has been judged that you ready for a particular investigation we have in mind."

"No," I stated.

"In return," he went on, ignoring my refusal, "you will be given licence to pursue your interests. I shall undertake not to interfere and you will have access to what you have lacked these past months: clients."

"_Suitable_ clients, of course."

"Naturally," said Mycroft as if the answer was self-evident. "But clients nonetheless. That they shall not require you to risk your life on their behalf is surely an advantage." His gaze became censorious as his eyes ranged my cropped hair, my unshaven chin, the sling about my arm and the fading bruises on my face. "Look at yourself, Sherlock. Look at this hovel in which you live. Is this the life to which you were born? By all means, pursue your bent, but do it with dignity. Here, take my handkerchief."

I had been trying to stifle the niggling cough that had been worrying at my chest since my return to my unhealthy surroundings. I accepted his offering and awaited his judgement.

"This place is foul and you have suffered neglect for long enough," said he. "You shall leave these polluted quarters tomorrow and return to Montague Street. I took the liberty of finding you rooms a few doors down from your old lodgings. The landlady is a tolerant, understanding woman. She has agreed to allow you to continue with your 'experiments' on condition that you bring no body parts into the house."

"And what is the price of your munificence, brother?"

If there was bitterness in my tone, it was intentional. I did not deceive myself that Mycroft had done any of this out of the goodness of his heart.

"For one, you are to have no further contact with Inspector Lestrade." He held up a hand in anticipation of protest. "You will find him no easy companion, for the task we have in mind will bring your interests into conflict with his. Despite the recent purge of the detective division, there is a canker at the heart of Scotland Yard. One of their number has been compromised. We mean to find out who it is."

"Not Lestrade."

"How do you know?" Mycroft returned. "You know nothing about the man."

"His intervention saved my life."

"He could hardly do less under the circumstances. Letting you die would have raised suspicions. However," he added, "let us give him the benefit of the doubt. If you have any scruples about accepting this commission, salve your conscience with the knowledge that you will be doing the unspeakable little cur a service by exonerating him."

"Put like that, how can I refuse?"

Mycroft gave me a look that suggested he had not anticipated my refusal for one minute. My submission had been a matter of course, my acceptance a mere formality.

"I would ask one favour, however, before I accept."

His eyes narrowed a fraction. "Within reason."

"It concerns a forger called Mosteyn Jones… and the name of the man who masterminded the deaths of nineteen innocent men at Postern Prison."

* * *

_**Well, well, Mycroft showed his true colours. Who'd have thought he would have manipulated his little brother like that? But Mr Holmes still has one last card to play. Mosteyn Jones, he wants that name!**_

_**Concluded in the Epilogue!**_


	17. Epilogue

**_The Particular Problem of Postern Prison_**

**Epilogue**

Five days later, I returned to prison.

This time it was not as an inmate, but as a visitor. I had some pangs of misgiving as I followed dutifully at the heels of the warder who led me through Broadmore's maze of corridors. Doors that required an infinite number of keys to open, the low tolling bell that rang in the distance and the groans of the insane behind metal bars brought to mind memories that I had done my best to forget.

My journey was one of necessity, however, and one I could not safely trust to any other. I had come to see Mosteyn Jones, the convicted art forger and current resident in the prison's infirmary, in search of a name. He was afraid, as well he might be, if what I suspected of his paymaster was true, but I had in my pocket the means to loosen the most reluctant of tongues. He would tell me, one way or another.

Jones was sitting up in his hospital bed looking appreciably better than the last time I had seen him. The prospect of a visitor was not unwelcome to judge from his expression, although his eyes widened in surprise and alarm when he finally recognised me. As our interview was to be a private one, the warder found a chair by the door and rattled the sheets of a newspaper as he settled himself down for a long wait.

"Holmes, that is you, isn't it?" Jones cried when I took my place at his side. "I hardly recognised you with hair." He managed a half-hearted smile. "You've been released? Yes, of course, you must have been." He lowered his voice. "We heard about Postern."

What he meant, what the world had been told, was that Postern had been prematurely declared unfit for purpose. The prisoners had been dispersed, the staff dismissed and the gates closed. Several salvage companies were already bidding for the building materials. Postern was to be erased from the face of the earth and the heinous crimes of the men entrusted with the care of the prisoners in their charge laid to rest with it.

It had taken several days of research to discover the identities of the nineteen murdered men. Petty criminals all, their greatest crime being that they were poor and alone in the world. For this, their lives had been judged worthless compared with the value of their bodies so that a few extra pounds could be made from deceiving an unsuspecting hangman and that men like Dr Martin could dine well.

There was no one to mourn them; Merridew had been careful not to leave any grieving relatives to ask questions as to their absences. In death too were they afforded little dignity. The prison graveyard was to be dug up and the bodies moved to a communal grave. Would they rest easier for knowing that Merridew had met with justice? I could not help but wonder. I felt it mattered that someone should know, even if my tongue was bound in silence – _'remember me, but ah! forget my fate'_, as once they sang. [1]

I had had time to wonder whether Jones had known of the occurrences at Postern. On the whole, I had concluded he had not. Had Jones the slightest inkling of the fate that could have awaited him, he would never have made such a bold move as to suggest his resolve was weakening. That he had had the temerity to make such a threat against his employer at all spoke of the depths of despair to which he had been driven.

_There's nothing he can't do_, Jones had told me.

In his case, it had been arranging for his removal to Postern and an appointment with the two thugs charmingly called 'Sticks and Stones'. A man who had that much influence would surely not be unaware of Merridew's other money-making activities.

Moreover, Jones had told me Vamberry had been one of his creatures. Jones had thought he had been executed – proof again of his ignorance – and it had given him false hope. What I suspected, and what I could not now prove, was that Jones's paymaster _had_ intervened, as he had done so on eighteen other occasions. I had my suspicions, but that was all. From what little Mycroft was willing to confide, Dr Martin and the others had rounded on Merridew and placed him at the head of the conspiracy.

Merridew, for his part, had said nothing. Absolute loyalty was demanded from his master, even unto death, a price his minions were willing to pay.

This left me with Mosteyn Jones, the last link in this broken chain. He was thinner than I remembered and wan from his experiences. The warder had told me that his wound was healing and he was well on the road to recovery. He further opined that he might be released into the general prison population as early as next week.

This news meant that we had little time. Unlike Jones, I was not convinced he was any safer here than at Postern. He had told me he intended to escape; from what I had seen of the place thus far and in Jones's weakened condition, I doubted he would get very far.

"It was good of you to come and see me, all the same," Jones said, uneasy in my silence. "Although you're the last person I thought to see… after what happened."

"Jones, I won't lie to you," I said. "It is _because_ of what happened that I am here."

"You mean my betraying you to Merridew? I said I was sorry—"

"No, I am referring to the attempt on your life."

His pale face lost what little colour it had. "I've already told you, Holmes, I can't tell you his name."

"He tried to have you killed once and failed. What makes you think he won't try again?"

Jones was breathing hard now and his eyes were darting in every direction. "I've learnt my lesson," said he in a voice slightly louder than before. "I won't do it again."

The warder glanced at us from behind his paper, rolled his eyes and went back to his reading.

"They're watching me, Holmes," Jones whispered, clutching at my arm. "I have to prove my loyalty. Please, go."

"Not until I have his name."

"I can't!" His features were contorted with misery. "To speak his name is to conjure up an image of all that is loathsome and vile. Why do you need to know? What use is it to you?"

"Because I mean to bring him to justice, Jones."

"You, a common thief? What can you possibly do against _him_?"

It was time for the truth in the hope that a confidence shared might inspire his own. "I am not a thief. I was never sent to prison for any crime. Nor is my name Henry Holmes. It was a convenient _nom de guerre_."

"Then who are you?"

"I am Sherlock Holmes. I am a consulting detective."

He blinked at me. "What's that?"

"For you, it means freedom." I drew a wad of papers from an inner pocket. Considering what it had cost me in terms of grovelling to my elder brother to get them, these documents demanded protection worthy of the finest gems. "This is an order for an early release – _your_ early release. All I have to do is give it to the governor and you will walk away from this prison today."

"He will find me!"

"You will take the train to Liverpool and then embark as a steerage passenger to New York. What you do then and where you go is your business."

He reached for it. I drew it away.

"They are real, aren't they? You aren't lying to me."

"As real as these prison walls."

He licked dry lips. "Very well. I'll tell you." He glanced nervously at the warder. "Give me a pencil and paper."

I tore a sheet from my notebook and passed it across to him. He cupped his hand around the pencil as he wrote, and then folded the piece of paper tightly and pressed it into my palm.

"Promise me you won't look at it until you're outside," said he. "He has spies everywhere." He swallowed hard. "He will know I have betrayed him. I'll never make it to Liverpool."

I grasped the sweaty hand. "You will, Jones, because I shall escort you to the dockside myself. After that, you'll be in the care of the ship's doctor."

A faint smile tugged at his mouth. "With the Atlantic between us, I might just have a chance."

"That's the spirit," I said, rising to my feet. "Now I have to see the governor. I'll be waiting for you at the prison gate."

I did as we had agreed. The governor seemed aggrieved that he was to lose a prisoner in this unexpected fashion, and grudgingly gave the order that Jones was to be prepared for release. He suggested that I might like to wait in his office, but I had had enough of grey walls and barred windows. I was escorted out, passing through the many doors on my way back to the outside world. Along the way, not looking where I was going, I collided with a young warder with brilliant blue eyes and hair the colour of new hay, dropping Jones's precious note in the process.

"That's all right, sir," said the young fellow, smiling as he stooped to retrieve the piece of paper for me. "My fault, I'm sure. No harm done."

I thought no more of it until I was outside with the weak winter sun struggling to emerge from behind a bank of clouds and Jones's note burning a hole in my pocket. My fingers were trembling as I opened it to read the name of the man inside.

I caught my breath. All I had was a blank piece of paper.

A moment later, I was hammering on the door, demanding to be readmitted. After an agonising long delay, I was inside once more, urging the warder on as we hurried back to the infirmary. Each door seemed to take a lifetime to open and every corridor seemed longer than before, so that by the time we reached the infirmary, I was convinced I knew what I was going to find.

I was not disappointed. The doctor was at Jones's bedside, shaking his grizzled head over the lifeless corpse with its blue lips and staring eyes. A pillow lay half across his chest, tossed aside once the grisly work had been done.

They would never find the blond young man who had switched my note and gone on to smother Jones. As the sheet was pulled over his head, I could not help thinking that his death had been a waste. Had he but whispered the name in my ear, at least I should know the identity of the man who had ordered his execution.

As a consequence, his murderer was free to continue his nefarious practices, at least for now.

Somehow I would discover his name.

And then I would give him good reason to remember mine.

**The End**

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_Well, friends, readers and reviewers, we've reached the end of the Particular Problem of Postern Prison. Thank you for all the reviews, comments and messages. I hope you've enjoyed reading this story as much as I have writing it._

_And yes, there's going to be a sequel, the last in this quintet of stories to bring the tale up the situation as it stands in STUD._

_So Holmes will soon return for the last of his early cases in…_

_**The Malicious Maligning of Inspector Lestrade!**_

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[1] From 'Dido's Lament', _Dido and Aeneas_ (1689) by Nahum Tate, playwright (1652-1715)


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